All in a Day's Work
by SandraDeee
Summary: By 9:00 a.m., she had broken a heel, lost her cell phone, and been the victim of a coffee catastrophe. By 9:30 a.m. she had "borrowed" the NSA mainframe. By 10:00 a.m., she was engaged to Oliver Queen. Really, it was all in a day's work. Plotty, fluffy fun with a side dish of heart. Part 5: You Never Forget Your First Time (on TMZ)
1. Must've Been the Sexy Shoes

**All in a Day's Work**

**Synopsis****:** By 9:00 a.m., she had broken a heel, lost her cell phone, and been the victim of a coffee catastrophe. By 9:30 a.m. she had "borrowed" the NSA mainframe. By 10:00 a.m., she was engaged to Oliver Queen. Really, it was all in a day's work.

**Rating****:** T, though later chapters may venture near/into M territory

**Warnings****:** None yet.

**Spoilers:** Anything up through episode 2x6 "Keep Your Enemies Closer" is fair game.

**Disclaimer:** We know this one by heart, right? All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes:** This is my first _Arrow_ fic, but I'm not new to the fanfic rodeo. I love to write and have been doing so for many years. There's just something about Oliver and Felicity that absolutely grabs me. The chemistry, the potential—it's all off the charts.

I really enjoyed writing this, even if it's a bit of a trope. I hope I've been able to give it a fresh spin and that you will enjoy reading it. If you so choose to review, I'd be most appreciative. Reviews help me to know what works and what doesn't, which would be particularly helpful as I am somewhat new to this fandom.

* * *

**Part One: "Must've Been the Sexy Shoes"**

If Felicity Smoak had realized just what kind of Monday it was going to be, she might have called in sick. Her string of bad luck began with breaking the heel of her left shoe in the parking garage. The strappy shoe with the mile-high heel had been an impractical splurge. _Retail therapy_, her friend JoJo called it when she had visited Starling City over the weekend. _Nothing says 'I'm going to walk right over you on my way to someone better' than sexy shoes, Smoaky._

If only all the world's woes could be cured with sexy shoes. It wasn't as easy as that. Never was. And there was the slight matter that wearing sexy shoes didn't make a girl sexy. Felicity had tried that argument with JoJo, but when they walked out of the store with the new purchase, Felicity knew she'd lost.

Despite her prodding, JoJo was just what the doctor ordered to get Felicity out of her self-imposed funk. For the last nine months, her whole life revolved around Oliver Queen. _Embarrassingly so_. From the moment he sweet-talked her into hacking a stolen computer—replete with bullet holes—with nothing but a lame cover up story and a wink, Felicity had found herself drawn to him. It didn't hurt that he was built like a Greek god and oozed charm. At that first meeting, her mouth had gone dry as she stammered and babbled; later, she would wish she could kick her own ass for acting like such a fool. But then she found herself wondering about him. What was a back-from-the-dead billionaire playboy doing with a bullet-riddled laptop? There was more to Oliver Queen than charisma, perfect teeth, and money.

And Felicity Smoak had always liked a mystery.

When she had described Oliver to JoJo, Felicity left out any mention of bullets—both the ones in the laptop and the one inflicted on him by his own mother. It had been _interesting_ to find The Hood bleeding in the backseat of her car. She could've done without the bloodstains, but finally the contradiction known as Oliver Queen started to make sense to her.

Until he didn't.

Though she didn't always agree with Oliver's choices, she could usually understand where he was coming from—at least until the Isabel Rochev fling. Yes, Isabel was attractive in that slinky as a cat way, but she was just…hateful, untrustworthy, and on The List. It really made no sense. How did that conversation go, anyway? _"Hi, you're a horrible person but hot in a black widow kind of way. I know you're on my dead father's list of evil doers, so let's have sex." _Come on.

"_Men don't think with their brains, Smoaky_," JoJo had told her over a pint of rocky road and a bag of Doritos. _"That's why God invented sexy shoes."_

Isabel Rochev must have a closetful. But as far as Felicity could tell, whatever happened in Moscow stayed in Moscow.

Not that it affected her one way or the other. She was done. Or at least, that was her mantra. Every time Oliver passed by her desk, his eyes lingering on her. _I'm done. I'm done_. Every time he stood behind her in the lair, hand on her chair. _I'm done. I'm done_. If she said it enough, maybe she'd eventually believe it herself.

In the two weeks since their return from Russia as backup for Digg, Felicity and Oliver had been cordial with one another, but that was the extent of their interaction. No more rides home, lunches at Big Belly Burger, or teasing. They had spoken little outside the confines of their jobs—coordinating his business schedule and his patrolling.

Truth was, he had thoroughly friend-zoned her. Not that there was anything wrong with friendship. Friendship, she liked. She could deal with that, but this felt exasperating and agonizing and just _dishonest_. She believed in Oliver, believed in his cause, believed he was a better man than he gave himself credit. What she couldn't believe was he left her with nothing but trite platitudes. _"Because of the life that I lead, I just think that it's better to not be with someone that I could really care about."_

At first, it struck her as romantic, knowing she hadn't imagined the connection between them. Then she had time to reflect—and time to get angry. He didn't want to risk a romantic relationship with her? Fine. But she was living that same life with him, a double life, a life of danger. She put herself at risk—albeit in a different way from Oliver and Digg—but risk, nonetheless. How many times had she pushed herself through something she never thought she'd have the moxie to do? Walking into an illegal casino and counting cards with the intent of getting caught so she could plant a bug? Check. Setting herself up as bait for a deranged serial killer? Check. Jumping out of an airplane, risking life, limb, dignity, and her lunch? Check. Chancing a life of imprisonment through her continual hacking, when she was absolutely certain that orange was _not_ the new black? Check. Check. And check.

And so she was done. _So_ done with hoping.

She almost had herself believing it.

Almost.

The sexy shoes were supposed to be a symbol of her liberation. JoJo, who taught literature at CSU-Sacramento, was big on imagery. Felicity wondered what JoJo would have said if her friend had seen the heel break as soon as she stepped out of her Toyota sedan and into the Queen Consolidated parking garage. Probably something along the lines of, _You're screwed, Smoaky_.

There wasn't enough time to go home for a different pair of sensible shoes, but fortunately, she kept a pair of sneakers in her office. It wouldn't look professional, but what was one more question to add to all those already being bandied about her qualifications for being Oliver's personal assistant?

With newfound determination that she would conquer the world—or at least conquer Monday morning, Felicity stepped off the elevator at the top floor of the Queen Consolidated building, promptly lost her footing, and ran headlong into Isabel Rochev's personal assistant, Casper van Pels, who paled when the coffee he was carrying spilled onto the white button-up blouse Felicity wore.

Once Felicity got over the sudden dousing of the hot liquid and pulled the material of the shirt away from her skin, it hurt far less. Her pride, however, had not remained intact.

"This is terrible," the man muttered, his pallid face looking pained. For a brief instant, Felicity thought he was going to cry.

Not terribly comfortable with emotional breakdowns, she tried to reassure him. "I'm fine."

"_I'm_ not. Ms. Rochev is going to kill me, bring me back to life, and then kill me all over again."

Felicity sighed as she rubbed a wet hand against her navy pencil skirt.

At least she was having a good hair day.

* * *

When Felicity finally rounded the corner toward her office, she could see Oliver closing one of the drawers and then…was he pacing? That was unusual.

"You've not been picking up your phone. What happened to you?" His voice was low, urgent.

"My heel broke in the parking garage and then there was the lava disguised as latte that spilled on me. Best. Morning. Ever."

Her ironic tone made him quirk his lips into the slightest hint of a smile. He'd missed this, and she did it—made him smile—without even trying.

And then Oliver found himself studying her as her story sank in. _Wow_. Sexy shoes. They made her legs look like they went on forever—or made her right leg look that way. The other shoe was decidedly broken, as she'd indicated. His eyes continued their journey upward and lingered a moment too long on her wet blouse, the coffee spill having afforded him a generous glimpse of her lacy bra underneath the likely-to-be-ruined silk. He forced his gaze upward. "So that has you ignoring phone calls?"

"I'm fine, by the way, though my pride's a little bruised," she said sliding into her chair and booting up her computer. "Thanks for asking. Besides, my phone didn't ring." She looked into the small clutch she carried. "Crap. Where is it?"

He pressed a folder into her hands, his fingers brushing against her wrist ever-so-lightly as he leaned down and spoke in a hushed tone. "I need everything you can get on this guy, whatever channels it takes, and you need to be ready."

"For?" she squeaked out.

But Oliver didn't answer her; instead, she watched as he slipped on the mask he affected for outsiders. Felicity immediately saw the reason for the change: Isabel Rochev.

* * *

_I'm done. I'm done. _

But she could still feel the warmth of his breath against her ear, the caress of his hands.

She was so not done, but she needed to be.

She slipped off her sexy shoes and replaced them with her brightly colored Adidas sneakers. Her blouse, on the other hand, was likely a lost cause. She looked down and grimaced. She may as well have been in a wet t-shirt contest for as much coverage as the blouse offered.

But she didn't have time to worry about that. Whatever was in the folder sounded urgent.

She opened it and found…not much. It was a small, glossy dossier obviously released by someone else's PR department. A prominent photo of a middle aged man with brown hair, except for the graying of the temples, and unusually large, straight teeth, caught her attention. Underneath the photo, a caption: Frederick McMartin, President and CEO, the McMartin Group.

_Corporate intrigue, here we come_.

The more she researched, the more she found _nothing_. Oh, there were the press releases from the McMartin Group, but intrigue? What intrigue? The man came across as a saint with the charitable youth foundations he'd established. He'd made numerous trips overseas, even, in support of foreign orphanages. He and his wife had seven children, five of whom were adopted. The family looked like an advertisement for the United Colors of Benetton. All the while, his business acumen was nearly legendary—if you asked the McMartin Group's public relations gurus, that is.

No one was that perfect. Oliver wanted her to turn over rocks? That, she could do. Cracking her knuckles, she took a deep breath before she began the process of breaking through a slew of firewalls and "borrowing" a secured government database or two.

* * *

"Something feminine but modest. Preferably silk. Size 4. And a brassiere, 34B." Oliver hung up his phone. "My apologies. That was unavoidable."

"You're wasting my time, Oliver." Isabel Rochev sat rigidly in the chair he had offered, while he leaned against his desk.

Oliver was halfway surprised she took the seat. He assumed that she had an unspoken rule about appearing submissive and would equate the difference in height as such. Then again, Isabel had managed to surprise him in a way that few people had, but he had no illusions about her_. Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer_, as the old adage went.

"Did you read through the information I sent to you Friday afternoon?"

"Of course. That's obviously why I'm here."

And so he made his pitch. "A new technology that uses the body to self-regulate its temperature, all through a bracelet. It's innovative. The financial rewards could be exponential, not to mention the environmental benefits. Imagine no need for air conditioning."

Isabel considered her words carefully. "It's a fascinating concept, but there's no proven viability. May I be frank with you?"

"I count on it," he replied, his eyes focused on hers.

"Investors want a sure thing, not some incompetent trust fund baby who majored in skirt chasing at no fewer than four universities." Oliver's brows furrowed, and she raised her hand to still his protests. "And while you and I both know you aren't incompetent, the investors don't. You have to prove it to _them._"

"Then I meet with them."

"They've already met you…in the tabloids. I go by facts, figures, research. First step, know your investor. Even if this technology does show promise, how are you going to sell it to, say, Frederick McMartin of all people?"

"The idea will sell itself on its own merits."

"You really have no idea how business works. It's about building relationships. McMartin, he's a family man."

"I am aware."

"With no interest in dealing with people he finds less than wholesome."

"Then why does he deal with you?" Oliver asked, his left eyebrow shooting up.

The dour look on Isabel's face transformed into a smile. "Because I am very persuasive."

"I'm sure you are." The words were innocuous enough, but the tone left little doubt of his meaning.

She looked at him the way one might try to pacify a child. "Don't tell me you're upset that we didn't talk about it."

"Not at all. It was enjoyable, but I don't need to be cuddled either. We've both moved forward." Oliver looked past Isabel's shoulder toward Felicity. The sleek, glass design of the executive offices left little room for visual privacy, unless the electronic privacy glass feature was activated, which neither of them ever did. So while he couldn't see what, precisely, Felicity was studying so intently on her computer thanks to a special screen accessory on her computer—a security measure they'd both agreed upon considering the nature of the other work she did for him—he could see the look of intense concentration as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

Isabel followed his line of sight: Oliver's blond IT girl turned personal assistant who accessorized a deer-in-the-headlights-look with nearly every outfit. "She wasn't happy with you."

"No," Oliver admitted. "She wasn't."

"I thought I had avoided getting into anything messy," she mildly chastised him. "Though it looks as though your assistant can't say the same." The state of Ms. Smoak's blouse was proof of that.

"She's more to me than an assistant."

Oliver watched as a deliveryman approached Felicity's office. A few strokes on her keyboard—he guessed she was surreptitiously closing out of whatever she was doing—and she gave her full attention to the man. He could see the tilt of her head. Confusion over the delivery, no doubt. Nevertheless, she signed for the box. She tried to tip him, but he refused. Once he was gone, Felicity lifted the lid of the box, pushed aside some tissue, and pulled out a brassiere, which she promptly returned to the container. Her fingers seemed to trace the contents before she pulled out a pale blue blouse. She rose from her chair and looked toward Oliver before vacating her office—and taking the box with her.

Isabel shook her head slightly. "So the rumors _are_ true."

"That depends on the rumor."

"You're sleeping with your assistant after all. It reeks of irresponsibility. You do realize that, don't you? Promoting someone who is heinously under qualified because of sexual favors? It's this type of behavior that alienates investors like McMartin and gets QC slapped with a sexual harassment lawsuit."

"Felicity is not a fling," Oliver replied crisply.

"As much as you and I would like to believe QC has the same brand power it once enjoyed, we both know that isn't true. And as much as I would like to believe I have the influence you do, my last name isn't Queen. You're the face of this company now, and what you do—_who_ you do—affects the bottom line."

"You want the bottom line?" Oliver noticed that Felicity had returned to her office, now wearing the silk blouse and, he assumed, the dry lingerie. Her colorful sneakers were amiss in her otherwise tasteful ensemble, but at least she was dry now and hopefully comfortable.

Of course, he was about to blow her comfort to hell.

He pressed a button on his phone, connecting their intercom system. "Felicity, would you join us?"

"_Yes, Mr. Queen."_

She approached his door with wariness, he thought he detected. The presence of Isabel had her on edge. At least, that's what Oliver assumed, though with the distance between them the last two weeks, for all he knew, he was the source of her discomfort. "Is there something you need Mr. Queen? Ms. Rochev?" She reminded Oliver of a woman doing an impersonation of a flight attendant: sunny but rehearsed.

Oliver closed the distance between them, his arm sliding around her waist. She felt tiny, tinier even than he remembered. "Felicity, it's time for us to come clean with Isabel."

_Be ready_, he'd told her.

Improvising was so not her strong suit, she practically huffed to herself. She liked being prepared, having everything planned out. She had always been that way from the time she was a small child, carefully choosing her outfits for the entire school week, to setting aside pre-determined study sessions. Even socializing had its allotted time slot.

But how was she supposed to think on her feet with his hand on her waist? It was warm, large, and strong. And being close to him—he smelled incredible.

What were they talking about again?

Her teeth grazed her bottom lip nervously and she nodded slightly, "I agree. It's time."

About what, exactly, had she agreed? She'd let Oliver handle the details and hope she didn't stumble over whatever he expected.

"Isabel, Felicity has done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife."

And she wasn't even wearing sexy shoes.

* * *

To be continued...


	2. You Can't Order a Fiancée Like a Taco

**Synopsis****:** By 9:00 a.m., she had broken a heel, lost her cell phone, and been the victim of a coffee catastrophe. By 9:30 a.m. she had "borrowed" the NSA mainframe. By 10:00 a.m., she was engaged to Oliver Queen. Really, it was all in a day's work.

**Rating****:** T, though later chapters may venture near/into M territory

**Warnings****:** None yet.

**Spoilers:** Anything up through episode 2x6 "Keep Your Enemies Closer" is fair game.

**Disclaimer:** We know this one by heart, right? All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes:** Wow! I am so incredibly humbled and amazed by your response to the first chapter of this story. The reviews, the follows, favorites, and PMs have been tremendous and so, so motivating. I've been having such a good time writing this story; it's so nice to know you enjoyed the first part, and I truly hope you will enjoy this installment, as well.

I should mention the title of this chapter is inspired by a poem called "Valentine for Ernest Mann" by Naomi Shihab Nye. I'm generally not into poetry, but that one is both so deliciously funny and poignant, I can't help but recommend it.

* * *

**Part Two: You Can't Order a Fiancée Like You Order a Taco**

Until Felicity Smoak met Oliver Queen, she could count on one hand the number of times she had been surprised in her adult life. Incidentally, they were all unpleasant surprises, as opposed to the surprise of finding a twenty-dollar bill that she'd forgotten in her coat pocket or discovering she'd won a lifetime supply of Tootsie Roll Pops. No, the surprises in her life usually had more to do with utter mortification than satisfaction.

There was the time her friend JoJo set her up on a blind date with the promise, "_You and Eli will hit it off. You have so much in common!"_ JoJo was right about that; she and Eli had grandparents in common. It turned out that perfect-for-her Eli was actually her first cousin, which would have been fine if she were Poe, one of the locals from _Deliverance_, or didn't care whether her family tree branched out. They had been able to laugh about it, though it did make for a particularly awkward family reunion that year at the lake.

Then there was the time she had surprised herself, throwing caution to the wind and more shots down her throat than she could count, all because Jack Sommet said she couldn't hold her liquor. It turned out Mr. Wrong was right about that. The next day she had awoken with an unfortunate hangover (which thankfully passed) coupled with an even more unfortunate tattoo (which didn't pass). She still hadn't told her mother about that one.

Perhaps even more horrifying than JoJo's gleeful declaration of "_Smoaky, you have a tramp stamp!"_ was when her Oma Miriam sent her a copy of _Fifty Shades of Grey_ with particular pages dog-eared for her quick perusal. While her "inner goddess" did not flip over the novel, her stomach did turn a bit. She wondered what her straight-laced cousin Eli would say about their grandmother sending her erotica.

And…that was about it. Until she met Oliver, most days were like the ones before. She got up, did a jogging route around the neighborhood, got ready for work, averted computer meltdowns thus saving the business world as she knew it, went home or occasionally out with friends, and began the process all over again the next day.

Felicity's life was not one of endless surprises, and for the most part, she was fine with that. She knew what to expect, took comfort in weighing probability in her mind. Still did, to some extent. In fact, if her life of crime (fighting) ever came to an end, and her reputation was in shreds, assuming she could avoid the big house, she was fairly certain she could fall back on being a Vegas odds-maker. Better _that_ than being a showgirl, something she knew without a doubt she did not have the coordination or general lack of inhibitions to do. It didn't take a genius in probability to figure that out.

So, no, few surprises came Felicity's way. Maybe it was because she played things safe, planned every aspect of her life meticulously.

_Safe_. That notion went out the door when Oliver walked through hers.

_And she wouldn't have it any other way. _

Oliver was one of the few people who could surprise her. She admired this about him—usually. Now, as she stood in his office in what had to be the most awkward meeting ever, she stiffened. Her face grew hot, her heart slammed against her ribs, and the blood whooshed in her ears. She nearly thought she was having an out-of-body experience, minus the part about being dead or nearly dead, except she hadn't actually gone anywhere and Oliver's hand was still on her waist, the gliding of his fingers leaving a heat trail on the silken blouse he'd bought her after her earlier coffee catastrophe.

Surely she'd heard him wrong.

"_Felicity has done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife."_

Since when?! She tried to keep an impassive expression, but she also recognized she had never been much of a poker player. From the corner of her eye, she peered up at Oliver. The set of his jaw, the seriousness of his gaze. Wow. If she didn't know better, she would say he was telling the truth. And then his eyes dropped, met hers, and with his other hand, he tenderly brushed a stray lock of hair that had fallen across her cheek.

"_Be ready,"_ he had told her.

How in the heck was she supposed to be ready for _that?_ They hadn't even been on a date! The man at least owed her dinner and a movie, maybe some pie before she would agree to marry him. But no, they'd skipped through all the boring stuff like courtships and I-love-you's and acrobatic sex and gone straight for the fake engagement. It was official. Somewhere along the way, her life had turned into a bad romantic comedy, minus the romance and the comedy. Surprise, surprise.

And she couldn't shake the contradiction of his earlier words—the ones she had mulled over for longer than she cared to admit. How was she supposed to reconcile _"I just think that it's better to not be with someone that I could really care about"_ with _"Felicity has done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife"_? She had wanted so much for him to stop being emotionally shunted, to open his eyes and see the possibilities in front of him, to choose to truly see _her_. It was a cruel irony. Evidently, he had done just that and decided that he could be with her—at least as far as the outside world was concerned—because she wasn't someone he could care about.

Ouch.

"When are you due?" Isabel's voice cut through the thumping of Felicity's heart. "Or claiming to be due?"

"We haven't set a wedding date yet," Felicity managed as she straightened her glasses, not fully hearing or comprehending the other woman's question, only knowing that Isabel, with her cool gaze, was awaiting a response.

Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Felicity's not pregnant."

_Right_, Felicity thought. _For that to happen, we'd have to actually have sex. _Not that she hadn't been curious, hypothetically again, with the way things stood, Isabel had a better chance of being Oliver's Baby Mama, and Felicity was fairly certain the woman had the maternal instincts of a Tasmanian devil.

Isabel looked from Oliver to Felicity. "Then why would the two of you get married? You are the CEO and co-owner of Queen Consolidated. And you," she said scouring Felicity with her stare, "are a personal assistant who doesn't even make coffee."

"Felicity is the best thing to ever happen to me. Better than I deserve," Oliver said with conviction. Yes, he was very convincing—convincing enough to make Felicity's stomach do somersaults, even though she knew better.

"And for the record, I do make coffee. Sometimes." Her comments sounded childish in her own ears. "Just…not for you," she added feebly staring coldly at the brunette.

Isabel folded her arms across her chest. "Is this an imprudent attempt to curry favor with the more conservative investors? This is perfectly amusing, but in all seriousness, Oliver, leave the investors to me."

The condescension of the other woman's tone irked Felicity. Despite the fact she halfway wanted to throttle Oliver herself, she couldn't ignore the surge of protectiveness. "You underestimate Oliver's abilities."

"Oh, I'm quite aware of his abilities," Isabel smirked. She turned her attention back to Oliver. "Don't do anything foolish. I don't want to have to clean up your mess." With that, she sauntered from the room leaving Oliver and Felicity alone.

Felicity stepped away from his touch and turned to face him. "Why do you let her talk that way to you?"

From the tightness of his jaw, she could tell he didn't like it either. "All the world's a stage. We all have parts we play. I'm playing mine for the time being."

"And now evidently I'm playing a part, too. You are totally exhausting me." Her tone of disapproval was impossible to miss. "You do know you can't order a fiancée like you order a taco, right? I mean, at some point, please tell me you learned that."

He looked at her, his expression apologetic. "I tried to reach you this morning."

"Still not a taco," she protested as she pointed toward herself.

Despite her obvious anger, Oliver couldn't help the lopsided smile that formed on his lips. Felicity surprised him. While he could depend on her, quite literally, with his life, he never quite knew what she was going to say. All he knew was that it would be a unique perspective and likely dizzying.

But she was a breath of fresh air in a life that had gone stale of hope. And when she'd smile at him, believe in him, he'd felt less like a monster and more like a man. A better man, what Oliver Queen should have been.

But Felicity wasn't smiling now.

"Don't," she pursed her lips. "Don't think you can smile at me and charm your way out of this."

"I need your help."

"Yes, you do," she nodded. "Frequently."

"I'm sorry we didn't talk about it before I sprang this on you, but think of it as field work. You're always saying you want to do more field work."

"You want me to pretend to be your fiancée. That goes beyond field work, don't you think? Have you actually thought this through?"

"If you agree, it will be for appearance's sake. After a discreet amount of time has passed, we can end the engagement. No one gets hurt. You can be the dumper."

Her eyes narrowed. "That was the proposal that everyone dreams of. Said no woman. _Ever_. What about your family? What about _my_ family?"

"Felicity—"

"You had no right, Oliver," she said quietly.

"I know, and you have every reason to be angry, but let me explain why I did it."

"I already know what you're going to say."

His brows furrowed. "You do."

"It's life-or-death, for the greater good, dogs-and-cats-living-in-harmony important. Just…" her frown deepened, "I can't. Not this." She scrubbed her hand across her forehead. "I need a cigarette."

"You don't smoke."

"I'm pretty sure I'm about to start because I need a new bad habit. This one's getting old. And-" she glanced toward the reception area, "it looks like your ten o'clock meeting is here."

With that, she hurried away to greet Oliver's appointment.

* * *

Oliver couldn't focus. If Mr. Westley noticed, the older man didn't comment on it, so enthusiastic in his own account of Queen Consolidated's Asian market ventures, his toupee had gone askew during his presentation. While Mr. Westley went through the quarterly expenditures report item by item, Oliver tried to soak in the information, only to find it didn't quite capture his attention the way his view of Felicity did.

She sat at her desk, working away at her computer, but her head was bobbing and her lips moving. Was she talking to herself? Her back was ramrod straight, her left leg folded over her right.

There were two people in the world he unequivocally trusted, and trust was an invaluable commodity. But this wasn't something Diggle could do for him. Hell, he had reservations asking Felicity for this. Digg had warned him against it, that they would find another way. With the way she reacted, Oliver had to agree that Digg was right, though he wasn't likely to tell him so.

Even though Felicity had proven herself over and over to be a good friend, things between them had become complicated. If he'd just let himself go there, Felicity could be so much more than a friend. Oliver felt it in the air between them, in the tenderness of her looks when she didn't realize he was watching. He didn't want to be the one that extinguished the light in her eyes, the innocence. What did he have to offer her, or any woman, for that matter?

But he was definitely muddying the waters. He knew she cared, knew how unfair it was to ask her to help him in this capacity. He also knew that if she accepted, he would have to keep himself in check. Touching her was too easy to start, too difficult to stop.

He watched with curiosity as she went to retrieve something from a drawer—and froze. She withdrew a small, velvet box and opened it before her mouth gaped slightly. She looked back at Oliver, saw that he was watching her, and quickly turned away closing the box.

"Do you have any questions, Mr. Queen?"

The direct address pulled Oliver from his observation. "No. I think that about covers it."

He would have to look over the report at a later time when he wasn't so distracted, though he didn't tell Mr. Westley that.

And as the two men rose to shake hands, Oliver saw that Felicity was gone.

* * *

Only Oliver would leave what had to be a $150,000-plus emerald and baguette diamond ring set in platinum in the drawer of her desk, Felicity fumed. He must've been confident she would go along with him. How incredibly arrogant!

_He should be confident,_ the voice of reason warred within her_. You have willingly done whatever he has asked_. _Why should this be any different?_

But somehow it was.

_I'm done. I'm done. I'm done. _

What a waste that he'd sprung for such a nice ring. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, the expense was a drop in the bucket to him. She hadn't tried it on, certainly didn't want to get attached to something that represented a sham, but she still had a hard time leaving it in her desk while she ran an intra-office errand. It made no sense.

She waited at the elevator and could hear the clicking of high heels behind her. The sound reminded her of her own questionable footwear.

"Excuse us, Casper," Isabel instructed her lanky assistant.

"Yes, Ms. Rochev."

_Not this again._

Her back to Isabel, Felicity surreptitiously removed the ring from its box and slid it onto her finger before hiding the box under the papers she carried. And just as Oliver knew the correct size for the blouse and bra she wore, he evidently knew her ring size, as well. The gems sparkled on her slender finger, though she had to admit the ring weighed it down, and she wondered how difficult it would be to type with it on.

_Getting ahead of yourself_. She had to admit the ring was beautiful though, and the emeralds were a nice touch, a bit like a _bona fide_ Oliver Queen nod and a wink.

The chime of the elevator sounded. Felicity boarded the lift with Isabel close behind. She pressed the numeral four and looked to Isabel who said, "Ground."

Felicity pressed the G button on the elevator control panel and stared fixedly at their distorted reflections on the walls. Amazing how Isabel could still be stunning even in those circumstances.

"I don't believe you and Oliver are being honest."

And there it was. The first salvo.

"It doesn't matter whether you believe it or not," Felicity replied trying to keep her voice neutral but unable to hide the sharpness seeping out. Was she really going to do this? Play along?

"The ring is lovely. It will be the first of many gifts, as I'm sure you know. You will continue to be rewarded with such trinkets, particularly when a Queen man has cause to feel guilty. Did Oliver give you that ring because of our encounter?"

The elevator came to a halt at the fourteenth floor. The doors began to slide open. Upon seeing the man standing there waiting to board the elevator, Isabel coldly told him, "Take the next one," and pushed the _close door_ button.

"You can't even pretend to be nice," Felicity said as the elevator began to move again.

"I didn't get ahead in business by being nice. I have to be shrewd, and as a woman, I have to work twice as hard for half the respect." Isabel spoke with a practiced nonchalance that grated on Felicity's nerves.

And suddenly she understood why Oliver didn't react strongly to Isabel. Her provocation was part of a strategy, a way to gain information and leverage.

Without another word, Isabel pushed the emergency stop button.

Felicity rolled her eyes. _You've got to be kidding me_. "I need to go."

"Not yet. I'm still trying to figure you out."

"What does it matter?"

But Isabel circled around the blonde. "There are two types of women who marry into the Queen family. The golddigger who doesn't care about her husband's extra curricular activities, so long as she gets prestige, the designer garments and accoutrement, and lives a life of luxury. I have no use for such a woman. A woman should earn her way, yes? And then there is the woman who buries her head in the sand, who thinks she can tame a man, change his very nature. She is foolish, and she is weak. I have even less use for that woman."

"And you're going to tell me which I am," Felicity stated blandly.

"It is not difficult to see. You know that Oliver was in my bed a mere two weeks ago. You were hurt. I could see it on your face at the hotel, I can see it now, and still you accepted his marriage proposal. Your truly laughable footwear suggests you aren't a golddigger, so it's obvious you're a fool. And fools get what they deserve." Isabel's eyes ran over Felicity once more. "It's a disappointment, really. Somehow I thought you were more."

At that, she pressed the _resume_ button.

* * *

It was another almost thirty minutes before Felicity made it back to the top floor. As soon as she stepped off the elevator, she saw Oliver walking down the hall toward her.

_Not now._

She ducked into a nearby ladies room—though in actuality it should've been called rooms. The anterior area was a lounge replete with plush sofas, decorative mirrors, and silk flowers, much more swanky than the restrooms on the lower floors of the building, though most of the executive offices had their own lavatories. She sank onto a sofa and took a deep breath.

She wished she were the type to wallow in misery; instead when she saw a problem, she tried to determine a solution. The whole morning, she had been so out of her element. How do you solve a problem like Oliver Queen?

And to top it off, the sofa was more comfortable than the one in her apartment. Maybe she could swap one out in the dead of night. There had to be some perks to being the owner and CEO's pseudo fiancée, right?

She looked up as the door swung open.

_You've got to be kidding me_, she thought as she watched Oliver step inside and turn the lock on the door to prevent any unwelcome guests. She faintly hoped no one had any bathroom emergencies.

"I've always wondered what it looked like in here." His words were casual, something Playboy Oliver would have said, but his expression was anything but casual. He wore the quiet intensity she had grown accustomed to.

"Boundaries?"

"You're right to run the other direction. That would be the smartest thing you could do."

She shrugged. "I know."

And yet she made no move to leave.

He sat next to her on the sofa, his knee touching hers. She felt a jolt of electricity at the contact, wondered if he felt it, too, but immediately dismissed the notion.

Oliver was a man she could never have; he made that perfectly clear when they returned from Moscow and ever since. Still she was drawn to him, and ultimately, that was what made what he was asking her to do so incredibly difficult. He was wounded and complicated and dark. He'd done horrible things for the right reasons and lived with ghosts of the past breathing down his neck, as he tried to atone for his actions, for the sins of his father, his mother. Tried to atone for the 503 lives lost in the Glades, for Tommy, for failing to save them all. Sometimes she thought it was a wonder he could breathe at all, and she ached to relieve his burden and longed to reach out to him. But dammit, for all of his impressive skills, another area in which he excelled was he knew how to piss her off and make it look easy.

And there was his knee, so relaxed against her own. She could feel the warmth seep from him. Biology, simple biology. Pheromones. And there was the adrenaline. Yes, it all made perfect sense and none at all. Why him? Why couldn't she just meet a nice, normal man who made her knees quiver?

And she knew why. She didn't do normal anymore. The life of safety she used to embrace held little appeal. Not that she particularly wanted to be in danger, but she wanted to make a difference, and helping Oliver made a difference.

"My life is screwed up right now."

"Yep," she replied, the _p_ in _yep_ coming out with an exaggerated pop. "I know that, too. So what's going on that we go from zero to sixty? And really, come to think of it, back to zero because the sixty thing was just for show, right?"

Oliver blinked twice in rapid succession as he processed Felicity's strange stream of consciousness. She deserved answers. "My father always taught me to keep my friends close but keep my enemies closer."

"Sage advice." _Especially if your enemy looks like a cross between a ballerina and a fashion model_.

"I'm trying to keep my family's company together, to make it be a force for good in this city. A lot of people depend on QC for their livelihoods."

"Including yours truly," Felicity interjected raising her hand. His eyes fell on the ring, but he said nothing about it. "And Queen Consolidated helps to provide resources for our friend in green."

Oliver leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped. "Isabel has been an enigma. She's the variable I can't account for in the equation."

_So you sought answers in her vagina, the least obvious place for answers, _Felicity thought sullenly_._ "Look at you being all mathematical."

But calling Isabel Rochev enigmatic was like calling the Pacific a puddle of water. Felicity knew this from experience from months ago when she researched the woman hell-bent on a hostile takeover of Queen Consolidated. What she found was startling. For all intents and purposes, Isabel Rochev didn't exist before 1999. What little information Felicity had been able to dig up on her had been unimportant. It was unheard of for someone who had risen to such a level of prominence among the movers and shakers of world conglomerations to be so hidden, lacking even a public persona. An even bigger question mark was why Rochev's name was on The List. With the other names, it took very little digging to uncover their nefarious deeds, but someone had gone to great lengths to cover Isabel's past, both distant and recent, which begged the question _why_. If only there was a thread to pull, perhaps they could unravel the whole thing. So, yes, she understood why Oliver would be interested in getting close to Isabel. Didn't mean she had to like it.

"Walter approached me recently. Over the last few weeks, a company by the name of Triglav Holdings has been quietly buying stock in Starling National Bank."

"The bank that holds some of your family's interests in Queen Consolidated," Felicity followed.

"Triglav Holdings is mounting a takeover of the bank."

"You think it's Isabel?"

"She doesn't have the financial resources personally, but Walter thinks she is involved. The company buying an interest in Starling National Bank is a dummy corporation for Stelmoor International."

"Talk about persistence," Felicity muttered.

"If Isabel is pulling strings to wrestle Queen Consolidated away from me, I have to be prepared with counter-moves. Find financing elsewhere. Walter has done everything he can to help, but it's likely he will be forced out of SNB."

"And _I'm_ your countermove?" Felicity asked incredulously.

"You're one of the few people in this world that I absolutely trust."

"So what good does telling her we're engaged do? Are you trying to piss her off? Make her reveal her hand? What?"

"She's been curious about us. She knows your background in IT, knows that you are an unusual choice to be an executive assistant, and knows that we spend a lot of time together outside of work. I needed to give her a reason why."

"Everyone else just thinks we're playing office, which is funny because no-way, no-how with those glass walls." She laughed nervously.

"You know about that?" he asked.

"Well, yeah. I wasn't born yesterday."

"I've played up an image, partly to divert attention from what we do after hours, partly because it's easier to hide in plain sight. But in doing so, the only reputation I have is one of a spoiled playboy who has never had to work for anything, who doesn't value anything but his own pleasure."

"So you need image rehab, and I'm it."

"You're approachable. Real. Decent. If a woman like you—a woman of substance—sees potential in me, there must be something there, right?"

And something in her chest tightened. She had always seen the potential in him, even when he apparently could not. Just as quickly as the thought came, she tried to brush off the swell of emotion. If they did this (how could she even consider it?), she couldn't allow herself to become emotionally attached. Well, _more_ attached.

"Either that or I'm after your money," she joked humorlessly. "Because that's what they'll say."

"And you'll be _you_ and show them the error of their ways, show them the beauty I see in you—inside and out."

Felicity swallowed hard, needing to change the direction of the conversation. "Why didn't you tell me about the bank? About your suspicions of Isabel?"

"I didn't want to rub salt in your wounds."

"I'm a big girl, Oliver. And I'm sure I could've helped you do _something._"

"You can help me now."

"Is that why you had me researching Frederick McMartin? The McMartin Group seems like it would be right up your alley if you're wooing new investors."

He nodded. "Except that Mr. McMartin isn't a fan. He was a friend of my father's, but the last time we saw each other, I acted like an ass. Hit on his daughter." Oliver grimaced. "I guess I did more than hit on her."

"_That's_ who we're going to try to convince to invest in QC? An angry father? Because from everything I read about this guy, he takes his family very seriously."

"It's been seven years."

Felicity thought of her own father and the way he stood by with a protective stance when she left the house on her first date. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure there's no expiration date on angry fathers. Do you have something in mind?"

"McMartin is part-owner of the Starling City Rockets. They're playing at home tonight. He has a private box. So does my family."

"So you want to make a sales pitch at a hockey game?"

"I want to make contact. That's all. Plant a seed." He paused as he studied the woman next to him. "Do you like hockey?"

Decision time. She knew where this was going.

"Hockey? What's there not to like? I mean, I don't completely understand it, but that's only because I haven't…studied it." She took a deep breath and looked down at her hand.

Oliver followed her line of sight. "The ring looks good on you."

She cleared her throat. "The clothes are nice, too. Dry."

"It was my pleasure."

"Perfect fit. All of it. You really know my body. Well, not _know_ it-know it. I mean, we've never had sex. I mean you've had sex, obviously. _Lots_ of it. And I've had sex. Just not together. And … wow. I don't know when to shut up. Well, I do, I just…" She squeezed her eyes shut and stopped abruptly before taking a deep breath. "I've got to stop doing that. Are you sure I'm the one for this job?"

His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. "Depends on whether you're going to hide out in the bathroom all day."

"Maybe. Wrong answer?"

He stood and held out his hand to her. Hesitantly, she took it. "So what do you say? Will you do me the honor of being my pretend fiancée? We could get…" she watched as his lips curled into a smile, "tacos for lunch to celebrate."

Was Oliver Queen actually cracking a joke? It was a _horrible_ joke, but for a man who looked like he used to smile all the time but had kicked the habit, Felicity couldn't help but appreciate the attempt—and the surprise. She managed a smile of her own even as she shook her head. "Are you buying?"

"I think that can be arranged."

"Hmmm. Just like our engagement."

And so she accepted his marriage proposal in a bathroom.

But their real work was just beginning.

* * *

to be continued...


	3. Like Pretty Woman Minus the Prostitution

**All in a Day's Work**

Synopsis: By 9:00 a.m., she had broken a heel, lost her cell phone, and been the victim of a coffee catastrophe. By 9:30 a.m. she had "borrowed" the NSA mainframe. By 10:00 a.m., she was engaged to Oliver Queen. Really, it was all in a day's work.

Rating: T, though later chapters may venture near/into M territory

Warnings: Very brief coarse language in this chapter.

Spoilers: Anything up through episode 2x6 "Keep Your Enemies Closer" is fair game.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes**: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! A big shout out goes to Aurora Abbot, Crimson-Kiss17, Terapsina, CamJ, DannyWMalfoy, cflat, Jen, quisinart4, souzap, amsr, Samantha-Chelsea, Hermosa06, lulu42, Fan of Show, ellieloves2read, SeCrEtSoPhIe, ButterflyBlueEyes, amerr, LiseDevi, Lei, Bunney, Ica013, mabscifiromantic, raven1066, KellethMetheus, VeraDeDiamant, carlotta1924, Jadiee, bo, Chris4, LianaRamsay, Madlenita, Aynessa, Laani26, Toomuchloveforthisworld, krazyy989, lovepadfoot, AnAverageGirl15, ChiefPam, and guest.

Regarding Isabel: Yes, it is absolutely wretched that right now she thinks Oliver cheated on Felicity. Hang in there with me, though. We'll see Ms. Rochev again and let's just say I'm a believer in happy endings.

Regarding the story's length: I'm looking at roughly 10 chapters, per my outline. Sometimes, though, the story takes a life of its own and I tend to get a bit too detail-oriented, so that number may change.

I know I was as slow as Christmas with getting this updated, but I really appreciate all of you for hanging in there with me. I'd love to hear your thoughts!

* * *

**Part Three: "Like Pretty Woman Minus the Unsavory Prostitution"**

She was nuts. Absolutely, certifiably insane. No, scratch that. Crazy people generally didn't _know_ they were crazy. In her time as part of Team Arrow, that was one of the (many) things Felicity had picked up on, whether it was from dealing with Helena Bertinelli (hello daddy issues), Malcolm Merlyn (hello delusions of grandeur), or even the Dollmaker (hello fixation complex). That—and Starling City seemed to attract more than its share of strange ones.

So no, Felicity Smoak wasn't technically crazy, but she sure was a glutton for punishment. Simple as that. _And not simple at all. _Her latest self-imposed punishment? Playing Pretty Woman—minus the whole unsavory prostitution angle—for Oliver. Not that she was in any way, shape, or form comparing herself to Julia Roberts. That woman had legs that went for miles, the gorgeous hair, and that smile.

That's what he needed, a Julia Roberts type. She should call Oliver and tell him to find someone else. Surely there was a publicity-starved starlet out there who hoped to make the jump from the B-list to the A-list and who was far more qualified to pretend to be his fiancée. Yes, she _should_ call him and beg off the whole ludicrous scheme, except she still couldn't find her phone. She had been so sure it was in her car or maybe in her apartment, except it wasn't. Her earlier search had proven pretty much a waste of time. In all the scurrying around after work trying to find her phone, clothes to wear to the hockey game, and even trying to catch a quick glimpse of her sanity, all she had managed to do was stub her toe from not watching where she was going and spill a half-full can of Dr. Pepper, which had been a beast to clean.

It was nerves. Anxiety. Butterflies in the stomach, which, when she stopped to think about it, was a gross thought, but she understood the fluttery sentiment. The increased adrenaline coupled with a lack of blood flow to the stomach triggered by a fight-or-flight response really did feel like butterflies—and she wanted to run, no doubt about it, outrun those butterflies, outrun Oliver. But now, this was more than butterflies in her stomach. This was full-on 'if you even mention the word date, I will throw up on you' worry. It would be so much easier if the inside of her head didn't feel like a Ninja blender. There was just too much _stuff_ piled up and mixed in; she couldn't separate her lucid thoughts from the random ones.

And the whole thing was ridiculous. She hadn't been this nervous on a date _ever—_not even when she started dating Mr. Wrong (whom she thought was Mr. Right at the time), and this wasn't even a real date. She needed to toughen up. Who was she trying to impress? But this was Oliver, and in some ways, she had never been rational where he was concerned.

_No. You're done, remember?_ Her silent chastisement did little to quell her mini freak-out.

Felicity tried to imagine what JoJo would say if she were there. JoJo's three most common pieces of advice were "_Get a grip, Smoaky"_ (when she was in full-on panic mode); _"Wear sexy shoes"_ (whenever a man was involved); and _"Ditch the glasses"_ (pretty much every time they saw each other). In this instance, though, Felicity was quite certain JoJo's sage advice would be _"Tell Oliver Queen to fuck off."_

The thought brought the smallest smile to her lips. Not that she would ever say that to him. With her luck, she would mangle the expression and inadvertently turn the insult into an invitation. Pretty Woman, indeed.

_This isn't for Oliver_, she reminded herself as she found her tall boots. _It's for the cause, the greater good. If Queen Consolidated gets taken over, Team Arrow will be seriously underfunded and undersupplied. _

But if she were being completely honest, she would admit that there was no other man she would do this for, even if Oliver Queen had the propensity for royally pissing her off.

_Great. You're thinking in puns_, she scolded herself. Maybe she was crazy, after all.

The sound of a rapping on her apartment door startled her. She glanced at the clock on the wall. 6:55. She told Oliver she would meet him downstairs at 7:00, so that left….crap.

"No, no, no. Now is not a good time for a kitty missile crisis, Mrs. Havisham," Felicity muttered as she struggled to finish pulling on her right boot. Her elderly neighbor was an entirely different kind of crazy. Cat lady crazy. But she was harmless enough, probably lonely, so Felicity checked in on her from time to time and Mrs. Havisham called on Felicity to help gather a feline escapee at least once a week. The critters seemed to shoot out of the old woman's apartment like missiles. It usually went without too much incident (if she could wrangle Oliver, she could surely wrangle a cat), but there was the one rather unfortunate time that Felicity discovered cat scratch fever was a real ailment and not just a Ted Nugent hit from the 1970s. "On my way!" she said more loudly. She looked down at the left boot still in her hand, and groaned, before opening the door.

On the other side stood Oliver, dressed casually in jeans, a gray Henley shirt, and a leather jacket. He held a retail bag, its corded handle dangling loosely from his fingers. And she felt the fluttering in her stomach all over again, a release of adrenaline that felt like butterflies.

_Stop it!_ It's not as though you haven't seen a handsome man before. _This_ handsome man, even, wearing much, _much_ less. But this just felt different, even though it shouldn't be different from any other fieldwork.

He studied her with a deliberate intensity that unnerved her further. "You shouldn't open the door without first checking who it is."

_Well, hello to you, too._

"What are you doing here?" Felicity shifted from one foot to the other, made more awkward by the fact that she wore one boot and held the other in her hand.

"We have a date. Sort of."

She stepped aside, a movement he took as an invitation, so he walked into the abode. "Yes, but you're up here. I didn't actually think you would come up to my apartment yourself."

He took a deep breath, which Felicity noticed—mostly because she had become an expert Oliver reader—and she briefly wondered if the situation was as weird for him as it was for her.

"What kind of fiancé would I be if I didn't escort you to the car?" he replied glibly.

"That sounds so much nicer than you making sure I didn't climb out the fire escape."

"Never crossed my mind. As I recall, you don't like heights—or sweat."

Immediately, Felicity's thoughts leapt to Lian Yu. When she and Diggle went to find Oliver, she had the notion that getting him to return to Starling City would be like walking into a minefield—she just hadn't expected a literal one. Oliver saved her that day (she had lost count how many times that made…pretty adventurous for a girl from Chico), and the first words from her mouth when they landed after he swung from the tree weren't "thank you," like most people would say. Nope. She just had to tell him he was sweaty, as if that was news to him. The experience wasn't altogether unpleasant, though. There had been a moment—albeit brief—when he looked down at her, his body atop hers, and uttered, "Hi," in a tone that seemed incredibly intimate and sent a shiver through her, despite the heat. Of course, it could have seemed intimate because of their physical proximity to one another. In the grand scheme of things, being pinned to the ground by Oliver was not so bad. She tried to wipe the memory.

Felicity pulled on the other boot, balancing on one leg and hopping slightly. She thought she might topple into Oliver, but she quickly recovered. "I'm working on that."

"Looks like your closet exploded."

She looked sheepishly at the piles of clothes draped over her sofa, cast on the floor, even over the flat-screen TV tucked in the corner of the room. "It kind of did before you sent over the Rockets shirt. I'd offer you a drink, but I'm not sure I can actually find the kitchen right now." She exhaled loudly. "I hope I don't screw this up for you tonight."

"You're going to be fine. Your job is to just be yourself."

"You _have_ met me, right?" Felicity considered herself a decent person, kind most of the time, and easy-going, but she was not particularly suave. On any given day, she suffered from foot-in-mouth disease. When she was little, her mom used to tell her that was her trade-off for being the smartest person in the room. Unfortunately, she then proceeded to repeat that at school, which didn't win her friends and only served as another prime example of open-mouth, insert foot.

"I don't want you to act like you're anything you aren't."

"Except for being your fiancée," she replied pointedly.

"There is that." He glanced down at the bag he carried. "I brought you something."

She gave him a sideways glance as he handed her the bag. "Should I be scared?"

His eyes shone with amusement. "This might qualify as a weapon."

She opened the bag to find a shoebox inside, familiar. These were her sexy shoes. _Not the exact ones_, she mentally corrected herself. The heels on these were fully intact. "Oh, these shoes are a weapon, all right." She looked at him, perplexed. "Thank you. And please don't take this the wrong way, but why?"

"I saw you had a mishap earlier."

"One of about half a dozen, but what else is new?" She paused and added, "You don't have to buy me things."

"They're just shoes."

"And I like them. I do, but it's not just the shoes."

"The clothes? You'd rather wear coffee all day?" He wasn't terse with her, exactly, but she could tell he didn't understand her reticence to accept gifts from him.

"Of course not."

"Then what's the problem?"

She opened her mouth to launch into an explanation, thought better of it, and left the matter at, "Never mind."

His eyes were taking in their surroundings, getting a better picture of what made her tick. The apartment was homage to brightness, light. The colorful walls—persimmon and turquoise—were unexpected. The sofa, from what could be seen, was a plush cream color. Photos and mementos, books and magazines covered nearly every surface that wasn't obscured by her clothes.

Felicity wasn't entirely sure she liked the scrutiny. Not that she had anything to hide, but this place seemed so separate from QC or the Arrow lair in the basement of Verdant. Having Oliver in her apartment felt like her worlds were colliding, and she wasn't entirely sure how to reconcile one with the other.

"When I imagined you coming over here, I didn't think it would look quite like this. The mess, I mean. Not that I've thought about you all that much. You being here. I mean, that would be ridiculous…" Oliver looked at her patiently waiting for her to work her way through her rambling. "Yeah. Um, back to the point of why it looks like this, I've never actually been to a hockey game, so I wasn't really sure what to wear."

"Casual." His lips quirked as he noticed the cocktail dress lying across the back of the couch in what he assumed was the reject pile.

Felicity looked down at her skinny jeans and calf-height boots she had paired with the fitted long-sleeved shirt selected for her. The v-neck dipped a little low for her taste. "Yeah, this gave me something to go on. Thanks for that." And it felt strange to thank him when only moments ago, she had been asking him not to buy her things.

"I tried to call."

She groaned. "Still haven't found my phone."

"Did you try to ping it?"

She shot him her best, 'You aren't really asking me that, are you?' look. Of course she had. Call it. Ping it. She had her tablet set up to alert her if anyone tried to use her phone, but with going to the hockey game, she wouldn't be around to monitor the activity. Fortunately, it was her personal phone and not a means to doing any Team Arrow work. Nevertheless, it bothered her as more than an inconvenience. She was always so careful with anything electronic. "It's fallen off the face of the earth."

"Or maybe we should look under your clothes." He paused for a heartbeat and tilted his head in the direction of her covered over sofa. "The piles." Seeing her gape slightly, he winked.

"Wow," she mouthed turning away from him. "What happened to Mr. Tall, Green, and Brooding?" She moved some clothing items aside to retrieve her jacket.

"Just warming up the Oliver Queen public persona for the crowd." His eyes swept over her. "By the way, you look really nice."

"Thanks. That's a step up from presentable. And you…clean up well." _Understatement,_ she thought. For all the many, many hours they spent together, she sometimes still found herself almost stunned by him. Of course, if he were Oliver of yesteryear, she doubted she would find him attractive. He had been spoiled, oversexed, tabloid fodder. Physical appearance only went so far. Jack Sommet had taught her that lesson long ago.

He took the jacket from her and held it so she could more easily slide her arms in the worn leather sleeves. "Before we go, we should talk about boundaries." His hands lingered after he pulled the jacket up to her shoulders, though he caught himself, and quickly stepped back.

"Right."

"What we're doing has the potential to be complicated."

"Oh, I think the potential has been met." She still didn't know what she was going to do if news of their 'engagement' moved from their private social circle to public domain. She couldn't lie to her family, not about this, but she couldn't very well tell them the whole truth either.

"I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"Too late," she squeaked.

"Having second thoughts?"

"More like third or fourth, but I told you I would help. I'm not bailing out. What were you saying about boundaries and my discomfort?"

"I don't want to cross any lines with you, so I need to know from you what I'm allowed to do when we're a public couple."

"What would you do with your girlfriends in public?"

He pursed his lips before truthfully answering, "I wasn't always a gentleman."

"Good news is that for Mr. McMartin's sake, you need to be. You've got to show him you aren't the same Oliver."

"If we're going to pull this off, we need to be convincing as a couple."

"See. That's what worries me. No one is going to believe that you would be engaged to me."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you're one of _People'_s 50 Most Eligible Bachelors and I'm nobody. Well, I'm not _nobody_. I'm Felicity Smoak from Chico, California. I don't ooze sex appeal. My family is respectable enough but not well connected." She watched his expression cloud and tried to explain. "Seriously, my parents' claim to fame is that their dog and Aaron Rodgers's parents' dog came from the same litter. I'm not an actress or model. And don't even get me started on my singing voice."

"Felicity?"

"Hmmm?"

"Assuming that I am completely superficial—which I haven't exactly given the press reason to think otherwise—have you looked in the mirror lately?"

Five minutes ago when she was fighting with her hair. She still wasn't quite sure whether she'd won the battle. It wasn't that she thought she was ugly, but she was neither polished nor va-va-va-voom. "I assume that's a rhetorical question."

"I think everyone you meet tonight is going to take one look at you and wonder what a beautiful, intelligent woman like you is doing with a guy like me."

Felicity shook her head. "You're airing out Public Oliver. Go ahead and get some more practice saying that with a straight face."

"I don't need practice. Public Oliver would have called you hot."

At that, she laughed, and nervously patted his shoulder as she joked. "Oh, I'm totally marrying you for the money. And the compliments."

"And I thought it was for the shoes." Without conscious thought, his hand went to hers, stilling her movement as their fingers tangled. "We never settled on boundaries."

The warmth of his hand and the quiet intensity of his gaze sent a tremor through her. This was the same hand that drew back his bow with deadly precision, the same hand that she'd seen clenched into a fist more times than she could count. And yet he was so tender with her now, she almost ached. Boundaries? Oh, yes. She needed boundaries. _Desperately_.

"Am I allowed to hold your hand in public?" he asked.

She nodded before articulating, "Yes." His thumb brushed across her palm. They weren't in public, but they were still linked. The feeling was both foreign and natural.

"Hug you?"

She swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Kiss you?" His words hung in the air, and it occurred to her that Oliver Queen had probably never had to ask permission to kiss a woman before.

She took a step back and gently tugged her hand from his grasp. She needed her wits about her, and if he stroked her hand any longer, it was entirely likely she was going to turn into a nonsensical mess, more so than usual. "A kiss…it means something to me. It's just too personal." Oh, God. Was she quoting _Pretty Woman _at him? Must've been the shoes. Oliver bought her shoes. And clothes. And a ridiculously expensive, several-years'-salary-for-her engagement ring for a marriage that wasn't even going to happen. Did the Edward character ever buy Vivian shoes? He must have because of the different outfits and the jewelry and…She cringed slightly. Would Oliver recognize the reference? "So, no. I'd rather you not kiss me on the lips for the benefit of putting on a show if it's avoidable."

He tilted his head ever so slightly as he considered her response. "Less complicated that way, too."

She let out a breath she hadn't even realized she been holding. They were actually going to do this. For all the panicking she'd been doing, it hadn't seemed real until now.

"Oliver, people are going to ask questions about us. How did we meet? Where did we go on our first date? How did you propose?"

"At work when I had trouble with my laptop. Let's see. Big Belly Burger to avoid detection. And when I proposed, I took you by surprise, but it's private." He rattled off the recitation with ease.

"I'll say you took me by surprise." She paused, "You do know people will think you proposed during sex, right? I mean, when you say it's private…private means, you know, _private_."

If she wanted a reaction, he didn't give it to her. "You ready for this?"

"Ready or not." She grabbed a small purse and the two headed out the door. While she was locking the apartment, she heard the door from the apartment next to her open.

"Hi, Mrs. Havisham," Felicity greeted.

The gray-haired woman studied Oliver and then looked to the blonde. "Who's this, Felicity?"

"This is my…Oliver." Not a tough question to answer, but already she was faltering. Why couldn't she say the word _fiancé_? That's what they were going to be telling certain people, after all. Nevertheless, she couldn't quite choke out the lie.

"Have I met you before?" the old woman asked, looking back at him admiringly.

"I don't believe so. I must have one of those faces," Oliver replied cordially.

"Very handsome. Don't trust a man who is too handsome for his own good, dear," she directed at Felicity. "No offense intended," she added looking back at Oliver.

"I trust Oliver with my life," Felicity replied simply.

"Did you see Mr. Whiskers out here?" Mrs. Havisham asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"No, we've been inside the apartment."

"Oh my. Well. I hope he hasn't wandered from home and gotten lost," she replied rather pitifully.

"We're on our way out, but I'll keep an eye out for him," Felicity assured her.

Once the couple made their way to the stairs, Oliver commented, "Havisham. That sounds familiar."

"_Great Expectations_. Dickens. Ms. Havisham was jilted by her fiancé and never recovered. She wore her wedding gown from the day of her ill-fated wedding until it caught fire many years later. She groomed her young ward, Estella, to be cold-hearted and inflict the same kind of pain on a man as had been inflicted on her. Quite twisted."

"Right. I remember now. Gwyneth Paltrow was hot in that movie."

"I've not seen the movie," Felicity replied as they turned the corner and took another flight.

They reached the front door to the building, and Oliver pulled it open for her. Ever the gentleman, _unless she was a pre-island girlfriend_, she added mentally.

"I'm parked out front."

Sure enough, Felicity spotted the Mercedes SL-Roadster right away parallel parked along the sidewalk. She had never seen this particular vehicle before; Oliver usually either had his motorcycle or else Digg drove him to keep up their covers.

The soft top was up on the convertible; it was definitely not the right time of the year for driving top-down with careless abandon, but the car was stylish, nonetheless, and probably the most expensive vehicle she had ever seen parked in front of her apartment building. While she didn't live in the Glades, the Penbrelle area of Starling City wasn't exactly affluent either.

Oliver walked to the passenger side to open the door for her when Felicity heard a meow. She looked around but saw no sign of the feline. Oliver must have heard it, too, for he immediately scoured the area.

"Mr. Whiskers," Felicity called out. She had never been to a hockey game—and at this rate, she never was going to get there. But there was something so pitiful about both the plaintive meow and Mrs. Havisham's worry that wouldn't let Felicity ignore the situation.

_Meow._

"Up in the tree," Oliver pointed.

Felicity went to the base and looked up. Definitely Mr. Whiskers. "What are you doing up there?" Talking to animals was a habit of hers, though at least she wasn't crazy enough to expect an actual response. Yet.

Oliver was by her side almost immediately, assessing the situation. "He climbed up. He'll climb back down."

"But the building is closed. He could wander around, looking for home, and never find it."

Oliver looked from her to the cat. Without another word, he began to climb the tree after the feline.

"What are you doing?" she practically yelped. "What if somebody sees you up there?"

"I spent five years on an island. Surely I can climb a tree without people being suspicious," he replied as he shimmied along the branch that held the cat. Stretching his long frame, he grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck to dislodge it from the branch.

"Be careful," Felicity warned.

"I'll be fine," he dismissed.

"I meant with the cat," she elucidated.

When he was low enough to the ground, Felicity took Mr. Whiskers from him and soothed the frightened cat. She was really more of a dog person. _But still_.

She heard Oliver drop to the concrete sidewalk, along with a _rip_.

He stood, reached behind himself, and squeezed his eyes shut. "Dammit."

"Did you just do what I think you did?"

"You have any extra pants up there I can wear?"

"If you can fit into my pants, I will kill myself. Okay, not really."

"Glad you clarified that. I was worried," he replied crossly.

"_Some_body's in a bad mood. Really, Oliver, you have no sense of humor."

"I do. Feeling a draft on my ass just isn't funny."

"Yes," she replied trying her best to suppress a laugh but failing miserably, "it is. I thought this type of thing only happened to me. I will be right back, and then we'll go somewhere and get you some less…drafty…pants," she promised him and hurried back into the building with the animal.

* * *

Oliver was grateful for the hidden back entrance he'd installed at the foundry some time ago. Otherwise, he'd be walking through Verdant to get to the lair—and he was pretty certain his ripped jeans would've been on TMZ. Not that he was particularly inhibited when it came to his body, but perception mattered. The CEO of Queen Industries should not be appearing on TMZ or other gossip sites.

A few years ago, he hadn't given pissing on a cop's tires a second thought, until his ass was hauled to jail. Even then, it was an inconvenience for him and embarrassment for his family, but the incident had barely fazed him. _That _Oliver probably would've taken off the jeans and just gone around in boxers the whole night, encouraging others to strip down with him.

That Oliver was long gone—and he couldn't help but think _'good riddance.'_ But he also knew the man who returned had his own demons, his own shortcomings. Same recipe, different flavor.

Of course, he could have used Felicity to cover his backside. Literally. Bodies tended to be close in Verdant; if she had her arms wrapped around his waist from behind, molded to him, following him through the crowd, no one would've been the wiser.

The thought was oddly appealing. The one thing Oliver had always been able to appreciate was the female form, and Felicity was certainly formed…

Snap out it. Keep this simple. Keep this clean.

Felicity was right. He did need to lighten up. He used to be able to laugh at himself. Hell, he used to just be able to _laugh_. But half the time he didn't know if he was coming or going, everyone wanted something from him, and what he could give was never enough.

"_It takes time,"_ Felicity had told him one day after a particularly brutal board meeting. _"But you have good ideas, Oliver. You're more than just a pretty face."_ She had seemed to catch what she said and stammered_, "Not that I think you're pretty. Handsome. Manly. That's more like it. But you're more than what they see."_

He still wasn't sure why she believed in him when, as far as he could tell, he had given her every reason not to believe in him.

Truth was, he had never wanted to be CEO. As a young man, the very thought was so far beyond the realms of possibility. As far as he was concerned, his dad was going to live forever. But with the Queen name in the mud, or at the very least, at the dry cleaner's, he had no choice but to try to be the man his father thought he could be.

And he didn't feel equipped. Smiling was mechanical. Social niceties seemed so frivolous. But in order to do what mattered—what could make a difference—he had to tolerate the dog and pony show.

503. _Tommy_. That was on him. His failures. He couldn't lose QC, too, lose the means to make amends for his transgressions.

Punching in the code to the basement, Oliver unlocked the heavy doors. Diggle sat in front of Felicity's beloved trio of monitors; the burly man's eyes followed Oliver as he walked by to retrieve another pair of jeans.

"What happened to you?"

"Came to the rescue of a cat."

"Must've been some cat," Diggle replied dryly. "You really going through with this?" His tone left little doubt as to his feelings. They had already been through this once. While Oliver respected Digg and trusted him with his life, there were things the other man just couldn't understand.

"Yes."

"It's selfish."

"I passed selfish a long time ago. I think I've reached egocentric by now. She says she can handle it."

John shook his head and shifted in the chair. It creaked under his weight. "Her world's about to blow up, and I don't think she even knows it, but you—you know better."

Oliver pulled on the intact jeans. "I'll do everything I can to protect her."

"Felicity's not the only thing that needs your protection. Have you thought about how your little arrangement is going to change things around here?"

"We'll do what we've always done," Oliver replied simply.

"Except all eyes will be on the two of you, every step of the way."

"I'm used to the limelight and dodging unwanted attention. Besides, this is only temporary. Felicity knows that."

"You say Felicity does, but do _you_?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me. You two have been circling around each other for months."

"We…haven't."

"She gets close, you push her away. Probably for the best. But then you pull her to you again. She deserves better than that."

"She deserves better than me," Oliver replied. "And when this is over, that's what she'll have."

"You're missing the big picture."

"No, I'm seeing the big picture. If I lose my company, we lose this," Oliver replied looking around them. "And if we lose this, we lose the city. And if we lose our city, then what's the point?"

* * *

"So I'm a hockey virgin," Felicity blurted when Oliver returned to the car.

Oliver coughed slightly at her word choice and looked across to the passenger side of the vehicle.

"I've never watched hockey. And by never, I mean, never ever. I mean I've heard the jokes about going to a fight and a hockey game breaking out. You didn't exactly give me time to study up on it. I was going to Bing it while you were inside getting…coverage…but then I remembered I don't have my phone."

The line between his brows deepened. If she didn't find her phone by tomorrow, they were going to need to get her another one. He didn't like the thought of her being out of reach.

"Hockey is easy to pick up on," he replied.

"But see, there are like, three things that terrify me. Well, more than that, but we don't have all night for me to get to the point. Peanuts for obvious reasons. Ventriloquist dummies, specifically ventriloquist dummies that give wet willies. And not knowing what the heck is going on."

Despite his sour mood, he couldn't help the smile that crept up on him. He never knew what she was going to say. Felicity was baffling and endearing and refreshing, even if he was fairly certain she was about to have a freak-out.

"You're afraid of ventriloquist dummies that give wet willies?" he asked incredulously. Of all the truly terrible things she had witnessed—things _he_ had introduced into her life—_that _was what frightened her? "There's no such thing."

"Look, there are some really creepy movies that come on late at night and I have a really vivid imagination." She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head slightly. "But that's not the point. I'm supposed to help you, right?"

"Stop over thinking."

"Come again?"

"I will teach you about hockey. I played when I was a kid."

"Really?"

"Surprised?"

Actually, she was. From everything she had heard of the pre-island Oliver, he seemed too prissy to be a participant in a contact sport. Not that she would ever say that aloud. At least, she hoped she wouldn't. Foot-in-mouth disease. Focus. "I thought hockey players didn't have teeth, like that was a pre-requisite for playing, or something. You know. Play hockey, lose your teeth."

"And amazingly, last time I checked, I have teeth." He pressed the ignition switch, and the engine of the roadster roared to life.

"You have a really nice smile, Oliver. It's a shame you don't show it more often."

Oliver chanced a glance at his companion, but her head was turned toward the passenger side window, and her blonde hair cascaded in waves to partially obscure her profile.

What was she thinking? He imagined she was running through what they were about to do, stressing over minutiae. Remembering names. Avoiding inadvertent insults. As far as he was concerned, Felicity didn't have anything to worry about. She was going to endear herself to everyone she met, just by being herself.

He, on the other hand, could never be himself.

But if there were anyone he would want to be himself with, it would be her.

Diggs was right.

He was selfish.

* * *

_To be continued..._

And yes, in the next chapter we will actually make it to the hockey game and see Felicity and Oliver's first attempt at "coupledom."


	4. Who Wants to Date a Dead Fish?

**All in a Day's Work**

**Synopsis****:** By 9:00 a.m., she had broken a heel, lost her cell phone, and been the victim of a coffee catastrophe. By 9:30 a.m. she had "borrowed" the NSA mainframe. By 10:00 a.m., she was engaged to Oliver Queen. Really, it was all in a day's work.

**Rating****:** T, though later chapters may venture near/into M territory

**Warnings****:** none

**Spoilers:** Anything up through episode 2x6 "Keep Your Enemies Closer" is fair game.

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes: **Thanks so much to all of you who continue to read. I should probably take a minute to explain that I am slow writer. I think it's a bit of my own ADD coming out, as well as the fact that I want to get things right. Plus, I tend to be detailed (perhaps overly so) and write long chapters. I do appreciate your patience. I'm aiming for a chapter every week, but that doesn't always happen. :)

To those of you who left reviews but did not sign in, I could not send you personal messages of thanks, but I do truly appreciate you!

The other things I wanted to touch upon are some plot points that have been challenged. This is all kind of boring, so if you want to skip on down to the story, you aren't really missing anything. :)

For the record, Isabel Rochev _**is**_ on The List. A reviewer insisted I was wrong about this, but I'm not. Isabel's name can clearly be seen a couple of lines under Adam Hunt's name in Robert Queen's book in the _Arrow_ pilot. Additionally, interviews with those connected to _Arrow_ have suggested that we will find out why Isabel was on The List by the end of the season. In the absence of a current explanation from the show, this story will have its own spin, which may or may not prove to be accurate once the canon story unfolds.

Also, a guest reviewer seemed to take exception to the premise and offered financial reasons for why the plot did not make sense to her/him. I submit that based on what we've seen established on the show, Oliver doesn't have enough liquid assets to ward off a takeover by himself (that was the reason Oliver needed financial backing from investors, which he found with a bank...go Walter). Yes, he is a billionaire, but most extremely wealthy people do not have their billions lying around. The money is invested. Coupled with Moira's legal woes, Oliver didn't have enough funds. So with the bank backing now in danger in _this_ story thanks to Isabel's machinations, Oliver has the same problem. The reviewer suggested that it would make more sense for Oliver to buy into the bank himself, but if he had the money for that, wouldn't he have just put that money into QC?

Either way, I'm happy this story (which really is intended to be mostly fluffy, by the way), has folks thinking.

* * *

**Part Four: Who Wants to Date a Dead Fish?**

The Starling City Rockets were notoriously unpredictable. The local sports commentator Skip Masters often joked (in that punny way that newscasters gratingly do) that the fans never knew whether the team was going to crash and burn or whether they would be firing on all thrusters. However, the one predictable aspect of every Rockets game was that at the beginning of each home game, someone (pre-arranged, according to Oliver when Felicity later asked about it) threw a dead fish on the ice.

As Felicity Smoak sat in the Queen family's private suite well above the activity of the rink below and saw the fish thrown onto the ice, she leaned forward wondering if her contact lenses were playing tricks on her. The act seemed somehow prophetic. After all, she was a fish out of water, completely out of her element, just as much as the dead fish on ice below. She frowned slightly, realizing how ridiculous the comparison was. Prophetic. Poetic. Pathetic.

_And this is why your dating life is nonexistent. Who wants to date a dead fish? _

A scantily clad ice girl skated onto the rink with a shovel and cleared the fish away, all with a million-watt smile. Felicity doubted _she_ had any trouble meeting men.

"_And what do you do for a living?" _

"_Why, I look cute and shovel things."_

Felicity looked to Oliver to see his reaction to the spectacle, but he was speaking with the suite attendant and was not paying attention to the action below.

She shifted in the plush leather seat. Being in the suite was odd; this wasn't her lifestyle. It wasn't that she was raised in a barn (more like a tree-lined middle class neighborhood, actually), but everything about the suite broadcast opulence.

The Queen suite seemed large, though Felicity didn't really have anything with which to compare it, except maybe her living room. The smell of leather filled her nostrils, the upholstery from the overstuffed chairs and sofas, she realized. A wet bar made from gleaming teakwood adorned one wall. Already, a variety of snacks were set out on its surface, while bottles of various liquor—some more expensive than what she earned in a week's time—were neatly arranged behind the bar on a shelf. A little alcohol to calm her frayed nerves was tempting, but the last thing she needed was to have her tongue loosened.

What was she doing here? She could be home, enjoying a much-needed break from the rigors of putting out Oliver's fires, and binge watching _Doctor Who_ on Netflix.

The whole day had been a surreal experience, now that she thought about it. Nothing said surreal like being fake-engaged to a playboy billionaire with a secret identity as a leather-wearing crime fighter. The leather was definitely more intimidating than, say, tights, though there was a certain curiosity she had regarding Oliver and tights…

She shook the thought from her head. _Mind out of the gutter. Don't think of him that way. Again,_ she mentally added.

Her mind was running away with her in so many directions at once.

_No more freak-outs. You can do this. You can. If you can survive various explosions, being attacked by a serial killer, manmade earthquakes, and Oliver's murderous ex-girlfriend with impossibly perfect hair, surely you can survive a date pretending to be the fiancée of a man who alternately makes your mouth go dry _and_ causes you to drool. And saving said man's multi-billion dollar company? All in a day's work, right? _

It really wasn't so different from other dates, she reasoned, only Oliver was up front that he was using her, whereas other men she'd dated typically sprung it on her. And it wasn't even a real date. Oliver had no romantic interest in her. That was loud and clear. She could have worn granny panties and neglected to shave her legs, and he would never know.

Watching the Zamboni machine resurface the ice of the rink, she was once again reminded just how little she knew about hockey. Football, she understood. Same with baseball and basketball. But it never even occurred to her to attend a hockey game, though the Rockets were certainly popular enough locally, even if they had yet to reach national prominence like the Detroit Red Wings or the New York Rangers. If anything, she avoided this part of town when the Rockets were playing. Too crowded.

Other than her own cross-country meets in high school, the only sporting event she had ever attended was part of a 49ers game with Mr. Wrong on a weekend getaway to San Francisco. That was until he kissed her and she quickly discovered she could no longer breathe. _That_ put a damper on their plans. She might've hoped Jack would make her breathless by the end of the night, but she had something in mind other than severe anaphylactic shock causing her airways to constrict. In her brain-addled state of mind, she had marveled that it was her luck that she was allergic to him. It turned out he'd eaten peanuts shortly before meeting her for their date in the hotel lobby. Good times. In retrospect, maybe it was the universe telling her that Jack Sommet was not the one for her.

She never really felt like she was missing out, though, when it came to the live sports experience (or when it came to the Jack Sommet experience). She was content to watch the occasional NFL game to root for her hometown's football hero, Aaron Rodgers, even if he did play for the Green Bay Packers.

So while being in a crowd never appealed to her, nor did struggling to find parking, coming to _this_ game was a different experience. First, Oliver had reserved parking. There was no mad hunt for parking a mile away from the arena. Yes, there was a crowd outside the venue, but when he'd taken her hand, all of the trepidation fell away, as though it was only the two of them. He led her through the VIP entrance of the arena, and just as quickly as they could climb a fight of stairs, they were in the club level that housed the private suites.

And now she played the waiting game.

Waiting for a hockey game she didn't understand to begin.

Waiting for a schmoozing game she _really_ didn't understand to begin.

Waiting for it all to be over so she could go home and stop pretending that all of these games were her normal life.

She chanced a glance back at Oliver, but he looked to be in deep conversation with the suite attendant. Were there really _that_ many instructions to be given? She hoped Oliver wasn't one of _those_ guys, like the rock stars who demanded that all the brown M&Ms be removed from the bowl.

Her attention quickly returned to the ice when music filled the arena. Guns N 'Roses' classic hit "Rocket Queen" accompanied the emergence of the Rockets players onto the ice. Felicity fought a smile, as she often did whenever she heard any mention of the name Queen. If she heard "God Save the Queen," she would probably have the same reaction.

To begin warm-ups, the players skated with the ferocity of steamrollers—and looked graceful doing it. They glided across the ice with ease and practiced taking shots into the goal, quickly pivoted, changed direction, and did it without once falling on their butts.

Impressive.

The warm-ups continued for several minutes while the announcer ran through a list of sponsors for the event, where information kiosks were located, as well as citing the entertainment between periods.

The music then shifted to Def Leppard's "Rocket" as the high definition megatron showed the starting six from the Starling City Rockets, amidst uproarious cheering of the masses. If it was that loud in the suite, Felicity imagined it must have been practically deafening in the general admissions seating. Just as quickly, the music changed again as graphics appeared on the megatron showing the opening lineup of the Rockets' opponents. As the announcer introduced each player from the San Jose Sharks, "Rock and Roll" came over the loudspeaker and the crowd chanted in unison, "Hey, you suck" as each opponent's picture appeared. This was not what she expected, but the crowd seemed to be experienced game-goers. When the last player from the Sharks was announced, the crowd chanted, "He sucks, too."

The bustle of the crowd below calmed briefly as an Army specialist who had just returned from a tour of duty in Afghanistan beautifully sang the national anthem, though when the man reached the climax of the song and the impossibly high notes it demanded, the crowd went wild.

And then it was game on. One player from each team met in the center of ice and faced off for control of the puck. At least she knew what the object was called, but wasn't Oliver supposed to be teaching her how all of this worked?

Like clockwork, he appeared by her side, sliding into the seat next to her. He barely even glanced at the action on the ice. "Are you hungry?"

She could eat pretty much always, but she tried to temper her enthusiasm. "A little. Everything okay?" she asked as she turned to make sure the attendant was gone.

Her nervousness from earlier had not entirely dissipated. It wasn't so much Oliver that made her anxious now, as it was the fact that she was soon to be on display and everything was riding on her performance, the futures of QC and Team Arrow. Social situations had never been her forte. Retrieving information from a bullet laden computer or secret government agencies was far easier than retrieving her dignity if she screwed this up. Not to mention, if she was supposed to be Oliver's image rehab, the last thing she wanted was for that image to be her wearing food.

"Just getting some intel. Steve's supposed to let me know when McMartin shows."

She assumed Steve was the name of the attendant.

"And then what?" Felicity asked. "We're here in our own private world, and I'm guessing Mr. McMartin will be in his own private world, so…"

"So we pay our respects."

"Invade," she corrected.

"Same difference."

"You have a really bad habit of showing up uninvited."

At that, an eyebrow shot up. "It usually works out. Did with you."

She groaned good-naturedly. "You are such a jackass."

"And you like it."

And he was right, though she wasn't about to admit that to him. Oliver's confidence—particularly because she often lacked her own—was alternately appealing and off-putting. This Oliver sounded more the way she imagined he must have sounded back in the day. Roguishly charming. Dripping with charisma.

"I never did get that blood out of the back seat of my car. I had to make up a cover story when my friend JoJo was in town visiting last weekend."

"JoJo?" he questioned.

That was right. Oliver didn't know about the visit. The two of them hadn't exactly been covered up in bonding moments since Oliver had been covered up with Isabel two weeks earlier.

It still stung, but what right did she have to be angry about it? He had made no commitment to her at any point other than he would keep her safe. And it wasn't as if he led a celibate life. There had been many women in his past. Many. _Many._ And there would be women in his future.

But Isabel Rochev? Of all the women in the world, _that_'s whom Oliver chose to scratch his itch? Every time Felicity saw Isabel, she couldn't help but think that maybe if Isabel ate some of that expensive makeup she wore, she could be pretty on the inside. Felicity had occasionally seen Oliver with women of substance, like McKenna Hall. A woman like that—decent, smart, who didn't see dollar signs when she looked at him—that was the type of woman Felicity wanted for Oliver. Not that he'd exactly asked her opinion.

Isabel had certainly been free with _her _opinion earlier, though. It had taken every ounce of self-control Felicity possessed to keep from reacting to the other woman's sneering during their encounter in the elevator at Queen Consolidated. When their little charade was over, though, Felicity couldn't wait to set the record straight. She was neither a fool nor a gold digger.

_And she sure as hell wasn't a pushover. _

Part of the reason she had agreed to help Oliver was just to piss Isabel off, to show Ms. Rochev she wasn't as smart as she thought. Of course, her main goal was protecting the Queen family's interests in QC and by extension, continuing the access to the Applied Sciences Division of QC, as well as the financial shelter the company provided to Team Arrow. But knocking down Isabel a peg or two? That wouldn't hurt Felicity's feelings any.

She suddenly realized she'd been lost in thought and hadn't responded to Oliver.

"Joanna," Felicity clarified after a beat. "I've just always called her JoJo. Good thing my cover stories are better than yours."

"Oh?"

"She thinks I took you home after you got into a bar brawl."

"Did I at least win?" he asked rhetorically before standing and extending his hand to her. Puzzled, she hesitated before taking it. Oliver was awfully handsy tonight. First in her apartment, then walking into the arena, and now. Though as he pulled her up from her seat and his gaze lingered on her, she couldn't quite remember why that was a bad thing.

_Wow. His eyelashes were long._

With her free hand, she nervously went to push her glasses up her nose, a habit of hers, only to find they weren't there. Right. Contact lenses. Oliver broke into a smile, and she felt the light flutters in her stomach.

Stupid biology.

_Don't,_ she reminded herself. _Don't let down your guard. Don't let yourself think this is in any way, shape, or form real._ She withdrew her hand but followed him as he walked to the bar.

"I wasn't sure what you'd want, so I arranged for a little bit of everything. Hot wings. Nachos. Funnel cakes. Popcorn. Kosher beef franks. A few other things. Nothing with nuts."

_He arranged for heartburn._

"And no tacos," he added wryly, though she could detect a hint of amusement shining in his blue eyes.

"That's really thoughtful, but you didn't have to go to so much trouble. I don't strictly observe kosher rules. Pepperoni on pizza _is_ pretty fabulous."

"So all those times we ordered pizza late at night, we could have been eating pepperoni?" he asked passing her a plate.

She shrugged, "I thought _you_ didn't like it. And Digg, well, he'll eat anything. But for the record, I do like it. A lot. Bacon, too. I mean, I don't eat non-kosher foods in front of my family, which I guess makes me kind of phony now that I think about it…" she trailed off.

"We all have secrets from our families."

"Some more so than others, but secrets aren't always bad. Your secret keeps your family safe."

"I don't know that I'd call them safe. Malcolm Merlyn was blackmailing my mom and I didn't even know it. Now she's about to go on trial for her life. And Thea—she's involved with someone who's nothing but trouble."

"You don't seem to have a problem using Roy when it suits your purposes," Felicity pointed out.

"He's too much of a wild card. Thea needs someone safe."

"Good thing she's not listening to you," Felicity practically snorted.

Oliver shot her a withering look. It was a patented glare that used to automatically make her knees quiver and still could on occasion, but for whatever reason, she felt emboldened tonight. Maybe it was because she knew he needed her. Where else would he find a fake fiancée on such short notice? Or maybe it was because she knew he needed a reality check. Too many people kowtowing to Oliver all the time—as her associates at QC often did—would only serve to make him insufferable, so she tried to counterbalance that when he felt strongly about a subject. "Oh no you don't."

"Don't what?" he asked.

"Don't give me the stink eye. Just because something is safe, that doesn't mean it's always the best choice. You taught me that."

If they were having a staring contest, which was what it started to feel like to Felicity, she won when Oliver blinked.

The contemplative look that crossed his face worried her, though, more than if he'd been furious. Nine months ago, he'd put his trust in her and asked her to trust him in return when he revealed his double-life. She chose to save his life and not only keep his secret but help him using her own skill set. It wasn't the safe choice—Oliver Queen could never be called safe—but it was the right thing, and she hadn't looked back, hadn't regretted stepping out of her ordinary life into one far more extraordinary and, yes, dangerous. Even when they clashed on his methods, she believed in his cause, believed in him.

She just wished she could take away his guilt. He didn't say it, but she was certain he was quietly piling onto his handy-dandy guilt scale, no doubt developed by the mis-Applied Sciences Division of Queen Consolidated. "This was my choice, Oliver."

He furrowed his brows as though questioning, _"How did you know?"_ but he didn't actually verbalize the thought.

She wanted to tell him that when let down his guard, he wasn't that hard for her to the man was already emotionally stunted. No need to make him even more emotionally unavailable.

"Look, I may not know your sister well, but I've seen enough of her to know that she's smart, intuitive, and…" Felicity added with a smile, "something of a firecracker. Roy makes her happy and challenges her."

"He's one step up from a thug."

She loaded raw veggies on her plate next to a hot dog. "He's a survivor, and as far as I can tell, he works hard at Verdant to support himself, to make his own way. He doesn't use Thea for her money."

"They met when he stole her purse," he reminded her with measured patience, which signaled to her that he was about to lose what little bit of that virtue he had left.

"He wants the city to be safe again, just like you do."

"Not just like I do," he groused.

She set her plate aside and touched his forearm. "Hey." She tilted her head subtly, as though making a peace offering. "We can keep this up, or do you want to talk about something with less conflict? Less grrrrr? You promised me you'd teach me about hockey, so let's talk hockey."

A few minutes later as the two sat side-by-side eating traditional game food (she did not add any condiments onto her hot dog for fear of dripping them onto herself—though she didn't tell _him_ that was her reasoning—but with her luck, he would probably think she didn't like ketchup or mustard), Felicity learned how ironic her request was. Hockey was, by its nature, a game of conflict. She was already familiar with the premise of the game, but the rules were foreign to her, as was the purpose behind the blue and red marks visible through the ice. Once Oliver explained the rules to her, she could see the strategy involved far more than skating around in circles carrying a big sticks and trying not to trip. She grimaced or uttered an "ouch" when a player would check an opponent and slam him into the Plexiglas, which struck her as unsportsmanlike but was apparently the norm in this game. She could've sworn she heard Oliver mutter under his breath about taking worse blows than that _without_ protective padding. And the penalty box? _That_ she found especially baffling. It was the NHL version of parenting. Grown man misbehaves? Just put him in time out.

When the left wing of the Rockets went into the penalty box after an illegal hit and the Sharks enjoyed a Powerplay, she commented, "In our next redesign of the foundry basement, I vote we install one of those."

Playing along, he asked, "But who would be the ref?" He swiped a carrot stick off her plate.

Felicity glanced back at the player in the box who looked none too pleased and was jawing his frustration. "All I know is the man who has to sit with the guy in time out has the worst job ever. I will never complain again when you ask for coffee."

Oliver leaned forward in his seat as the Sharks' center approached the Rockets' goal on the Powerplay. The player attempted a shot—and missed when it was deflected by the goalie.

Oliver did a fist pump in reaction.

_Wow_. That was not what she expected from Mr. Cool.

"So…hockey fan. Another secret identity, I take it."

"Not as much anymore, but when I was a kid…" His voice trailed off, as though lost in his own memories. Realizing she was waiting for him to finish, he went on, "My dad used to bring me to the home games when he wasn't too busy. Mom didn't really care about hockey and Thea was too little, so it was just the two of us." He paused. "And whatever business associates or employees Dad brought along."

Oliver rarely spoke of his father except in the context of QC business or the path Robert Queen set him on to right his wrongs.

"And you played hockey as a kid." Felicity tried to imagine a young, carefree Oliver and came up short. The man who sat next to her seemed like such an old soul most of the time.

"I wasn't very good," he admitted. "I was uncoordinated."

_That _was hard to believe. Oliver's every movement seemed so deliberate, so graceful. He was a man who knew his body, knew how to use it to its full effect.

"What about you?" he asked. "Did you play any sports?"

She fought back a gurgle of laughter. "I ran."

"Track and field?"

"Cross country. I had to depend on others less that way. Team sports were never my thing. My parents insisted that I do something athletic, and I agreed as it made me better rounded as a scholarship applicant."

"And yet you're a valuable member of a team now."

"I live a life of irony," she sighed. "And I've learned to play nice with others."

"Mostly," he teased. "You still run."

"Every morning. How did you…?"

He tilted his head as his eyes dipped over her body, the flatness of her stomach, her toned thighs and calves.

Her cheeks suddenly felt very warm. "Right."

"We should run together some morning," he suggested.

She shook her head vehemently. "I don't think so. I've seen you run."

"Too fast for you?" he challenged.

"Too Parkour for me," she retorted.

He threw her a crooked smile that suggested the matter wasn't entirely closed, but he was willing to let it go for now.

His eyes returned to the game, but he continued the conversation. "You said your parents wanted you to play sports. So what about your family? What's their story?"

"That's the first time you've asked. Probably because you checked me out. My credentials. Checked out my credentials and background. Not _checked me out_ checked me out."

He looked back at her. "I did check you out." And he winked.

Felicity took a gulp from her bottle of water and looked away.

"You rarely talk about them," he persisted.

"My family is complicated, which is strange because they shouldn't be. There are no dark skeletons in their past. Not that I'm suggesting your family has skeletons. I mean, we all have skeletons. Otherwise, our bodies would just flop all over the place, and our brains would end up in our spleen, which is a mystery in and of itself because what does a spleen even do, and…" She paused and shook her head, as though pushing a mental reset button. "I've really got to stop that."

"My family has skeletons," Oliver asserted. "They made their fortunes off the misfortune of others."

"That's not going to be your legacy."

Oliver side-stepped the topic. "Why is your family complicated?"

"Why is any family complicated?" Felicity hedged. "Here's the thing. My parents have put all their hopes and dreams into me. And have you ever been around Jewish mothers? You should meet mine. I specialize in IT; she specializes in guilt. She wants to know why I'm not settling down and having babies."

"What do you tell her?"

"That I'm happy with the way things are."

"Are you?"

His question sucked the wind from her as the conversation took a far more serious turn than she had anticipated. Both of her jobs required an enormous commitment, leaving little time for those things that used to seem so important but in retrospect weren't (though she wished she still had time to go to Trivia Night with her friends from the IT Department). In the midst of those demanding jobs, she found unexpected friendships and a sense of purpose. So was she happy?

"Most of the time." She reached over and snatched a nacho cheese laden chip from his plate, careful to not let the cheese drip. Turnabout was fair play. "What about you?"

He looked uncomfortable with the question but responded, "I'll be happy when the city is cleaned up."

"That's no way to live."

Her words were blunt but her tone soft. She could see the flickering of emotion in his eyes, but she couldn't entirely decipher it.

"It just seems like things are getting worse, not better, and I'm trying to plug a hole in a dam by using a finger."

She reached over and hooked her forefinger with his. "All the more reason to see the possibilities around you. Oliver, happiness isn't something to be attained at some unknown point in the future. It's something you have to find in the here and now. It's the little things like hockey games and really good nacho cheese and buy one get one free. It's spending time with people who are special to you and being able to let go long enough to laugh."

"Felicity."

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you think nacho cheese is a good thing because your sleeve is in my nacho cheese."

She yelped and pulled back her arm. Sure enough, the orange, gooey, cheesy goodness was smeared on the sleeve of her leather jacket. She let out a half-groan, half-chuckle. "So much for being careful. I may as well have had the ketchup and mustard."

He shot her a confused look but got up to retrieve a damp towel to wipe the garment.

Felicity stood and shrugged off the jacket. When she turned to look at him, he quickly turned his head, but she could see the gentle shaking of his body. Was he _laughing_? She was not particularly thrilled that she had done something embarrassing yet again, but maybe the outcome was worth it.

Oliver turned back around and had a straight face, except for the twitching of his lips. He took the jacket from her and gently rubbed the cheese off.

"Looks like you're cleaning up all my messes today," she chirped.

"God knows you've cleaned up enough of mine," he replied holding the jacket out to her.

She took it from him, and as she did, their eyes locked onto one another, blue on blue. She caught a glimpse of the man behind the affected mask and her breath caught within her. He was a man of flaws, of contradictions. Tragic and triumphant, scarred and beautiful, vulnerable and strong. Above all, he was a survivor and a hero. If only he could see himself the way she did, but that was something he would have to learn on his own.

He studied her a moment before asking, "Your mom wants you married off and having kids. Is that what you want? A family of your own?"

Was he worried about standing in her way of having a family? Never let it be said Oliver Queen was an undemanding boss, but he had yet to demand anything of her that she was unwilling to give. And at this point, she didn't see where a husband and children could even fit into her existence. And then there was the small matter that now the bar was set very, very high for the next man to come along in her life.

Poor guy.

"I want to keep doing what I'm doing. I love my mom, but I'm not going to live my life for her. But down the road…._way _down the road, I can see myself getting married and having kids. Theoretically."

"Any man would be lucky to have you, Felicity." The rawness, the intensity of his tone, nearly made her drop the jacket.

The opening of the suite door interrupted the moment. "Mr. Queen," a man, the earlier attendant, had appeared. "You asked to be notified when Mr. McMartin arrived. The younger Mr. McMartin is here, sir, but I don't believe the elder Mr. McMartin will be in attendance tonight."

"Thank you, Steve."

"Is there anything else you need?" Steve asked.

"No," Oliver replied. He looked to Felicity. "You?"

"No, thank you."

At that, Steve nodded and exited the suite.

Felicity felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. "So this has been for nothing?"

"I wouldn't say 'nothing.' I'm glad we got to do something together that didn't involve business meetings, paperwork, or arrows. Besides," Oliver added with a hint of a smile as he walked behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Cristal, "we can still…invade."

* * *

Oliver wasn't kidding about invading—though he waited until the game was between periods. He reasoned that even if Frederick McMartin wasn't present, there was nothing wrong with making contact with the family, as the McMartin Group was a family-run company. With the Cristal in one hand, and the other hand pressed against the small of Felicity's back, he approached the owner's suite like he, himself, owned the place. The security guard recognized him immediately and opened the door to allow the duo entrance.

The suite was much like the one Oliver and Felicity had just been in—leather and gleaming wood—except this one was full of people, some young, some old.

A sandy-haired man about Oliver's age turned when the door opened. It took a moment for the man to register who his visitors were, but once he did, a broad grin spread across his face. "Look what the cat dragged in!"

Oliver plastered a smile on his face in response. "It was a bear, but in my defense, we were both really drunk at the time."

The man clasped Oliver's hand firmly and, if possible, his grin seemed to expand. "Good to see you, Ollie."

"You, too." Oliver looked to Felicity who stood by his side watching. "Felicity, this is Parker McMartin. He's an old family friend. Parker, this is Felicity Smoak, my fiancée."

Parker's eyebrows shot up. "Your fiancée? It's been awhile, Ollie. Didn't realize just how long." He took Felicity's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet the woman who finally domesticated Oliver Queen."

"Likewise. Not that _you_ domesticated Oliver. Or that you're a woman. Likewise that it's good to meet you. Which…I could have just left at…likewise." Felicity grew flushed.

Parker laughed heartily and pressed his other hand over hers. "I like you." He squeezed her hand before letting her go. He then turned to Oliver. "Where'd you find her?"

"Queen Consolidated. The IT Department. I had some trouble with a laptop. She fixed it for me." A version of the truth was easiest to keep track of, after all.

"I'm really good with my hands," Felicity offered, then paused. "That sounded a lot less dirty in my mind."

Trying to smooth Felicity's ruffled nerves, Oliver pulled her to him and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her forehead. In response, she snuggled closer to his side, fitting perfectly under the crook of his arm, he noted. But when he felt her fingertips press lightly against his abdomen, he drew in a slight breath. She looked up at him and smiled nervously, oblivious to the effect she had on him.

Parker shook his head as he studied the couple. "You're a keeper. I just didn't think my old friend here would ever settle down."

"I get that a lot," she replied with a smile.

"I had just never met the right woman until Felicity," Oliver added smoothly.

"So when's the big day?"

"We…haven't decided yet," Felicity said as she and Oliver exchanged glances.

"I'd take her to the court house tomorrow if she'd let me. Less chance of her getting away."

"You've kind of ruined all other men for me, silly," Felicity chastised as she gently swatted his abdomen. She then turned her attention back to Parker. "It will be awhile. I've always wanted a big wedding. Besides, I think my mom would be heartbroken if she didn't get to hover and fuss over the details."

Oliver groaned jokingly. "Felicity really hates to disappoint her mother. Makes her feel guilty."

"Well, Oliver," said a curly-haired brunette who approached the trio, "I just hope your own mother is available for the nuptials. Maybe you _should_ get married at the courthouse."

"Claws in, Colleen," Parker warned.

"I'm behaving. Mostly," Colleen cooed in response before batting her eyes in faux innocence at Oliver. "I didn't mean to sound so catty. I know it's been a rough few months for Moira."

"I'm confident my mother will be exonerated," Oliver replied to the newcomer, keeping his tone neutral. The tightness in his jaw was impossible to miss from Felicity's vantage point, however.

"Of course." The brunette, about two inches taller than Felicity and armed with killer curves, stood before the blonde, studying her. "Colleen McMartin, Parker's sister. Ollie and I are…_old friends_."

"Felicity Smoak. And I can see why Oliver has made new friends." As soon as the words slipped from her mouth, she wished she could take them back. "Oh," she squeaked.

At that, Parker burst out laughing, and to Felicity's surprise, so did Colleen. "I think I'm going to like you, Felicity Smoak," Colleen finally managed.

"I can't imagine why," Felicity muttered.

"Oliver, we're having a get-together at the house this Friday night," Parker began. "You and Felicity should come."

_An in_. They might not be making contact with Frederick McMartin himself, but this was a step in the right direction.

"Honey, are we busy on Friday?" Oliver asked looking at Felicity.

"I think we're free," Felicity replied, the opportunity not lost upon her, though she was still stunned at the turn of events.

"Good. Dinner's at eight. I look forward to seeing you both."

* * *

"I'm so sorry," Felicity groaned when she and Oliver returned to the Queen family's viewing suite.

"For what?" Oliver asked.

"I almost ruined things. Lucky for me Parker seems to think that _everything_ is funny. I wonder how much he's had to drink."

"Parker is easy-going. Colleen is…"

"Just easy?" At that, Felicity slapped her hand across her mouth. "You should break up with me now. Like, _right now_. I can't imagine that I am doing anything to help your cause. All I'm doing is embarrassing the both of us."

"Hey, mission accomplished. You were perfect."

"How can you say that?"

"Because you're so guileless."

Felicity did a double take. "Except that I'm not. I'm a lying liar. Thankfully my pants aren't on fire."

"If that old saying were true, I wouldn't have any pants left to wear." At that, Felicity's eyebrow shot up, intrigued. "And you heard what Parker said. You're a keeper."

"You know, there are going to be a lot more questions about our wedding plans—plans that we don't actually have."

"We were doing fine."

She crossed her arms. "Yeah, well, I was halfway afraid you were going to announce a taco bar at the reception, seeing as how I hate to disappoint my mom."

Felicity was the one who mentioned her mother first, so why wouldn't Mrs. Smoak be fair game? "Are you upset with me?" Oliver asked incredulously.

"Frequently, but right now, I'm just a little freaked out. Word is going to leak; I don't know how we'll keep it all quiet."

He took a deep breath. "If you want out, say the word. I'll find another way."

She ran her hand through her hair. "There is no other way, and believe me, I've thought about it."

"So have I."

Walter had come through for him when all else had failed. With much of the Queen fortune tied up in investments and Queen Consolidated itself, Oliver didn't have enough liquid assets to fully head off the hostile takeover, only to stalemate it. And now that the bank backing was likely to be rescinded, he was back to square one, or at least would be soon. He had investigated the possibility of surreptitiously purchasing controlling interest in the bank itself, but he ran into the same problem: that still required more liquid assets than he had. With his mother's accounts frozen and Thea's lack of interest in Queen Consolidated, he was running out of options. He had been working on building his own business reputation, but getting his father's old friends to see him in a different light wasn't easy, particularly in light of his history and divided attention.

"Isabel is on my father's list."

Felicity knew that already, knew that the list was a connect-the-dots for those who had in some way failed Starling City through greed and corruption. But she also knew Isabel was relatively young compared to others on the list and thus didn't entirely fit the list's profile. "Why?"

He pinched his lips together and shook his head slightly. "She's shadowy. With the others, I could follow the breadcrumbs, uncover their corruption. With her, there's nothing."

"I have a theory."

"Surprising," he replied drily.

"You're probably not going to like it, though."

"Even more surprising."

"Whatever this is with Isabel is personal, but it's not about you. I think it has to do with your dad."

"Felicity," he began to protest.

"No," she replied holding up her hand. "Hear me out. When I ran into her earlier today…"

"You ran into Isabel?"

"Well, more like she cornered me in the elevator—"

"You didn't mention it to me."

"I don't tell you everything that happens to me or everything I think. There's too much _squirrel!_ going on."

"Squirrel?"

"Right. You weren't back yet when _Up_ came out. You should watch it sometime. Good movie. Though I had a college professor that looked just like Mr. Fredericksen right down to the brown pants, bow tie, and tweed jacket, I mean, if a person can look like a cartoon character."

"Felicity, focus."

"Okay. So Isabel was being her _delightful _self. According to her, there are two types of women a Queen man marries: a golddigger or a fool. Because of my sneakers, she said I obviously wasn't a golddigger, which left the fool. She thinks you cheated on me, and I'm an idiot for agreeing to marry you. Which, for the record, if we weren't pretending, that would have been a deal breaker."

"I'm sorry."

Was he sorry Isabel cornered her or sorry he slept with her? Felicity wouldn't tell him it was all right because it wasn't. So she continued with her theorizing, "As Isabel spoke, it was as though she was personally offended that I would put myself in the position of playing the fool. And that got me thinking. Why would she care one way or the other? But she said kept referring to 'a Queen man,' as in a pattern of behavior. How many Queen men are there?"

"Just one."

"One doesn't constitute a pattern for an entire family. I don't think that was a slip of the tongue."

"My dad wasn't a saint, but—"

"She's beautiful, articulate, smart. She goes after what she wants. _You_ didn't resist. Why would _he_? Theoretically speaking, of course." She swallowed hard. Was it tacky to accuse a dead man of having an affair with his son's one-half hour stand? Probably. "So why was she on his list? And—"

"Can it help us to stop her now?" Oliver finished. And suddenly it made sense. His mother had warned him not to trust Isabel. He had dismissed her warning because of course he wouldn't trust the woman leading the Stelmoor takeover attempt. But in the process, he'd overlooked something else. "I think my mother knows."

* * *

To be continued in Part 5: You Always Remember Your First Time (on TMZ)


	5. You Never Forget Your First Time(on TMZ)

**Synopsis:** By 9:00 a.m., she had broken a heel, lost her cell phone, and been the victim of a coffee catastrophe. By 9:30 a.m. she had "borrowed" the NSA mainframe. By 10:00 a.m., she was engaged to Oliver Queen. Really, it was all in a day's work.

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** some suggestive dialogue and mild profanity

**Spoilers:** Anything up through episode 2x6 "Keep Your Enemies Closer" is fair game.

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Note:** A big shout out goes to LandonLover, JLC, . .x., Kaly18, Jen, Toomuchloveforthisworld, motherduk, quisinart4, hollicita, littlegirl-misao, soupzap, msbeth, Arileb, jimi18, Wolf9lucky, SketchyJawa, , Starlight77, Ica013, Poison's Ivy, The Fearless Diva, C. , limelight24, anaclima, scifihippie, Guest, BeBrezzy, annependragon, SeCrEtSoPhIe, krazyy989, emilyhotchner-and-olicityfan, Laura Picken, vashfan59, pia, ChiefPam, Jadiee, entropy20, AnAverageGirl15, HotHybridSex, KarshaJo, ForensicMidnightReader, cflat, schrooten5, Mimozka, and JuliaAurelia. Thank you so much for the reviews! I truly appreciate them and love reading your thoughts.

I am so curious to hear what everyone will think about this one. :)

* * *

**Part Five: You Never Forget Your First Time (On TMZ)**

It only took one day for Felicity's semi-normal life to go up in flames.

Ironically, the day began with such promise. For once, she awoke before the screeching of her alarm clock, guaranteeing the darn thing would live to blare another day. After quickly using the bathroom, brushing her teeth, changing into running clothes (leggings and a moisture wicking long-sleeved shirt), and fighting an epic battle to pull her unruly bed-head hair back into a ponytail, Felicity was out the door for her morning run. The cool mid-November air was invigorating, if a bit too cool. In a few minutes, she'd be plenty warm though.

She stretched briefly on the stairs leading into her apartment building and prepared to lose herself in the music from her iPod. The sun was barely over the horizon, and it cast a rosy glow on the urban landscape. This was one of her favorite times of the day—before the world woke up and crazy happened.

In truth, she probably shouldn't have been in such a good mood. Oliver had, once again, put her in an untenable position, this time by asking her to play the role of his fiancée. She didn't think she'd ever get used to the curveballs he threw her, but she was at least getting pretty good at catching them. Not bad for a girl with questionable coordination.

Last night had actually been _fun_. She had thought being around Oliver would be difficult, especially playing the role of lovers after being so thoroughly friend zoned, but it had been surprisingly—well, she wouldn't go so far as to say effortless—but it had felt natural to be by his side. More than anything, it was nice to be talking again about things other than work; she hadn't realized just how much she had missed the ease of their friendship that had been lost—or at least on extended hiatus—since Russia.

The best part was that despite her rambling and insulting Colleen McMartin, she managed to make a favorable impression on the younger generation of McMartins. _How_ was still a mystery to her, but Felicity was starting to feel confident that she would be able to help Oliver save his company. Team Arrow: 1. Isabel Rochev: 0.

Felicity made it only about half a block jogging before she caught something in her peripheral vision. It was unusual for anyone else to be out this early, but she realized she wasn't alone, and whoever was there was catching up with her. Cautiously, she fingered the miniature container of pepper spray she carried on a plastic wrist chain similar to an old-fashioned telephone cord.

And just as she prepared to surprise her would-be assailant, Oliver fell into step with her. Her heart thumped in her chest, a sign of the adrenaline that had coursed through her body that now rushed in a wave of relief. She tugged the earbuds from her ears.

"What are you doing here?" She sounded less happy to see him than she felt.

"Getting ready to tune up my tractor before plowing the fields. You?"

"The same." She paused for a moment and said, "That was you being sarcastic in response to an obvious question and not some weird code for…something, right?"

At that he chuckled. "Glad to see you have pepper spray."

He _did_ notice he'd scared her. Good. He shouldn't be sneaking up on people anyway, well, except when he should. But he shouldn't be sneaking up on _her._

"I'm sure not going to be running around with a bow and arrow," she replied.

"Right. Because what kind of person does something like that?"

It was her turn to chuckle. Oliver cracking a joke? She could grow to like that side of him. "You keep a good pace."

"So do you."

"I'm not used to running and talking," she panted slightly. "Well, I'm used to running and I'm used to talking, just not at the same time." They continued for another block before she added, "I usually run alone."

"Thought we might change that up this morning."

"You really don't take no for an answer."

"You said no to Parkour," Oliver reminded her. "Not to _me_."

"For the record, I'm not jumping over any obstacles unless my life depends on it."

"It's good for you to exercise different muscles. Challenge yourself."

She scoffed at that. "The bruise I got on my thigh the last time I attempted anything remotely Parkour would suggest otherwise."

Oliver looked at her, the question written all over his face. _When did you try free running?_ He knew Felicity and Digg had trained together during the months he had returned to Lian Yu, when he'd been hiding from the destruction he'd left in the wake of his failures, in the wake of Tommy.

But he didn't want to think about those five months.

Five months of hell, left with his demons and nothing else.

"I'm sorry I scared you. I would have called."

"But my phone…Yeah, maybe on my lunch break I'll head to the store and get another. It's just the principle of the whole thing. I really wanted to find Betsy."

_Betsy?_ She named her phone Betsy?

"Don't bother," he replied digging into the pocket of his running pants and producing a sleek new phone.

He passed it off to her and her techno geek heart went pitter-patter. She had actually been eyeing the model on CNET, but it wasn't supposed to be released for another month.

"This is…um, wow. Thank you, but you shouldn't—"

He cut her off before she could finish her protest. "I need to be able to get in touch with you."

"Of course." _Shiny_. She liked shiny things, which either made her a raccoon trapped in a human's body or very superficial in her estimation. "I don't have any pockets." The iPod was clipped to her waistband, and the key to her apartment was tied onto her running shoe. She supposed she could tuck the phone in her sports bra, but then it would get all sweaty and just…yuck.

Oliver responded by reaching over, taking the phone, and shoving the device back into his pocket for the time being. "In full disclosure, I planted a tracking device in this one. The power supply is independent from the phone itself."

No more losing phones, theoretically. But the other aspect wasn't lost on her. As long as she had her phone with her, Oliver or John would be able to locate her even if she couldn't answer it. While this wasn't something Felicity liked to think about, her association with Oliver—whether through his Oliver Queen persona or his Arrow persona—was inherently dangerous. Both had their share of enemies.

"Do you ever sleep?"

He looked surprised by her question.

"It's just—you brought me home last night and then had to drive home yourself. I thought _I_ got up early, but you've had time to get me a new phone that I don't even know how you got hold of, install a tracking device—which is either really sweet or creepy, don't know which—and meet me to go running."

"That about covers it."

"How do you even function?"

He considered her question. "You know how you don't like crowds?" _How did he know that?_ She'd never actually told him. "Sleep's not really my thing."

"You've just not been in the right bed."

He chortled at her words.

"I mean, you've not been in a comfortable enough bed. My bed's very comfortable." _Not making it better!_ "For sleeping," she added hastily.

"Is that an invitation?" he teased.

"Absolutely not."

She was sweaty, hot, from keeping up with him and talking at the same time as running. Today, he challenged her with a faster pace than her norm—but his words made her imagine another scenario where she'd be hot and sweaty, a scenario that didn't involve running and did involve her bed with no sleep involved.

And it wouldn't mean anything to him, she reminded herself, pushing the heady possibilities from her mind. He viewed sex so cavalierly, had been with so many women, and she would just be one in a long line. She wanted more than that for herself, wanted the emotional connection as well as the physical one. Of course, all of that was a moot point. Oliver wasn't interested in her like that. He'd made that perfectly clear after Moscow.

Seeing the frown lines etched between her eyes, Oliver silently cursed himself for obliquely teasing her about sex. The last thing he wanted to do was jeopardize their newfound truce, but he'd honestly thought she would stammer and launch into a ramble about mattress quality, not shut down entirely.

And it would all be a joke, just like it always was.

Only they weren't back to where they'd been before. Sure, they'd actually enjoyed themselves the night before—and made a damn good team, too. But emotions, those were tricky, and he'd hurt her in Moscow, and she wasn't ready to let go of that.

Maybe it was for the best.

When he had sat next to Isabel in that Moscow hotel lounge, vodka dulling certain senses and heightening others, all he could think was a beautiful woman wanted him with no strings attached. He was lonely and eager for a release, for a few moments of pleasure that he could snatch. Isabel didn't see him with rose-colored glasses. She would never be disappointed in him because she would never allow herself to care enough to be disappointed. It seemed harmless and he'd certainly found the sex to be enjoyable.

It never occurred to him that Isabel might have ulterior motives.

And it never occurred to him that he would hurt Felicity.

Early on, Oliver knew Felicity was physically attracted to him. From her humorously inappropriate Freudian slips to the way he would catch her watching him in training, it was fairly plain, and he wasn't above using her attraction to his advantage. He just never realized it went deeper than that for her, never dared hope it could, because he had nothing to offer her.

He was a man who had killed more people than he could count, who had at one point grown so accustomed to killing that he barely gave it a second thought. Now he questioned whether he was any better than the people on his father's list.

He was also a man who couldn't sleep through the night because every time he closed his eyes, he relived those things he'd rather forget.

There would be no happily ever after for him, no raising a family, no little league or hockey games.

And he figured he had an expiration date sooner than most.

Felicity was still so innocent in many ways. She had stared down evil, faced the worst in people, and yet she maintained her optimism.

And he would only disappoint her.

Felicity may have cast him in the role of hero, but one day she would look at him and realize he'd been the villain all along. His darkness would swallow her light.

And so it was easier to keep her at a distance than to close the expanse. _It was for her own good._ At least, that was what he had told himself, though he was beginning to recognize it may have been for his good, as well. She was the type of woman who would make him want that life of normalcy, of lazy Sunday afternoons in bed, movie nights with buttered popcorn, and "How was your day, honey" conversations.

But the distance hurt in ways he never imagined. The shared jokes, the simple touches, the way she provided a sounding board for his ideas—he found the loss of her companionship profound.

But as he reminded himself, it was kinder to be cruel, to put an end to any notion of a romantic relationship.

And then he'd gone and blown that to hell, asking her to play his lover, to put her reputation under scrutiny, her life on hold. Once again, he proved just how much he didn't deserve her.

They continued in silence, an invisible barricade erected. Frustrated, Oliver found himself picking up his pace even more, attacking the pavement. He could hear her breathing more heavily, but even with her shorter legs, she kept up with him at least for a time.

Ahead, he could see the entrance to Muir Park, its low landscaping wall offering a hurdle and a challenge. "Come on," he encouraged her before surging ahead.

"We agreed no Parkour, Oliver!" she grumbled when she saw him jump over a low wall.

"It's just like jumping a hurdle on the track, not really even Parkour," he replied running in place waiting for her.

"I told you I didn't run track and field!" she protested as she continued running on the sidewalk.

Once she took off, he followed. "You've got this," he encouraged running parallel to her on the other side of the wall.

She circled around to take the wall at a better angle and leaped over it, albeit awkwardly.

Her arms went up in the air in a girly imitation of Rocky Balboa after he climbed the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Oliver asked.

"No one likes a gloater." But she smiled as she said it, the earlier tension between them easing somewhat. "I could just as easily have fallen on my face."

Her smile was infectious. He wasn't sure how she did it, but she chased away the shadows. "I'll have you scaling walls in no time."

"More field work for me," Felicity replied with a near breathless laugh as she stopped running and instead, bent over at the waist, and rested her hands against her thighs.

"I've created a monster."

"Well, this monster needs to get back to her lair."

"Turning back already?" he asked.

"It's two-and-a-half miles back. Every morning when I hit the park, I know it's time. I've got to get home and get ready for work. I don't want to be late."

"It's not even 7:20."

"All you have to do is shower and get dressed, maybe brood a bit, and _ta-da_, you look amazing. It takes me longer to get ready. Taming the hair is a feat in itself, and my boss _hates_ when I'm late."

"Your boss must be an absolute asshole."

She raised an eyebrow. "He has his moments."

* * *

The two made it back to Felicity's apartment building, once again at a faster pace than she was accustomed to running, but maybe it had been a good thing. Oliver pushed her to do more than she thought she was capable. She might be paying for it later, but for now, she felt invigorated. _She wasn't sure if it was the runner's high or the Oliver high. _

"So I'll see you in a little while," she said by way of farewell as she knelt down and retrieved her apartment key from her shoestring.

"Wait. Where are you going?" he asked, his hand gently cradling her elbow after she stood and took the first of the concrete steps leading into her building.

"I'm not going to work like this. I'm going inside to get ready."

"Felicity, I need a shower."

"Yes, you do. So do I."

"I brought a change of clothes in my car. I was hoping you wouldn't mind if I..."

"You aren't taking a shower in my apartment," she replied bluntly. "I need to get ready, and I can't if you're…you know."_ Naked._

Oliver watched as her teeth grazed her bottom lip. Her cheeks were rosy from the run, her face scrubbed of any makeup. He could make out a few tiny freckles on her nose.

She was stunning.

And he was being an idiot. Hadn't he just been thinking of how he needed distance from her? Knowing and doing were two completely different beasts.

"I am presumptuous." He dug her new phone from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. "Here. I'll see you at the office."

He turned to walk toward his car, but she stopped him. "Oliver, wait!" With some hesitation and an expression that suggested she was going to regret it, she added, "I get first dibs on the shower."

"You won't even know I'm there."

Somehow she doubted that.

* * *

The only bathroom in Felicity's apartment was en suite. After finishing her shower, she wrapped herself in a bathrobe before opening the door to her bedroom. She figured while Oliver was in the shower, she would get dressed. Per usual, she had her work clothes picked out for the week and all lined up in her closet, a holdover from when she was a child and chose her school clothes for an entire week at a time. It was probably a good thing because her apartment, while not the wreck it had been the night before when Oliver arrived to pick her up, was still doubling as her closet with all the outfits she had decided against wearing to the hockey game.

Her work outfit for the day, a Mondrian inspired cream, black, and royal blue colorblock sheath dress from Calvin Klein, was one of her newer purchases. When she worked IT in the bowels of the building, she could get away with button up shirts paired with sweater vests and khaki skirts. As the CEO's executive assistant, she had a more visible role and had to dress accordingly. It was like playing dress up, and a part of her enjoyed it at first, but there was always so much to think about. Accessorizing properly. Being an extension of her boss's image. Tough when there was the part of her that also wanted to wear Vulcan ears her dad bought for her at a Star Trek convention.

She read an article online about dressing the part of EA, and it suggested fashionable but not too trendy; at least one sexy fashion statement but not sexy all over, as that broadcast desperation; and spring for a few expensive wardrobe pieces that could be utilized in various outfits (though she couldn't be sure how seriously to take the article since the next article was a how-to guide for seducing him—whoever _he_ is—and, as the article put it, "making his pickle get the most out of the tickle").

She'd never be able to look at pickles the same way again. The food, that is.

She planned to pair the dress with a skinny black belt and the shoes Oliver bought for her. Modest but fashionable dress. Check. Sexy shoes. Eh, it would work as long as she didn't break a heel this time.

Speaking of sexy, she could hear the splashes in the shower though the door was closed.

Once again, it struck her that Oliver was in her shower. Naked.

It was silly to get worked up over something as simple as a shower. A whole freaking wall _and_ shower curtain separated them. It was as foolish as going, "Oh my goodness, under those clothes, he's naked." No duh. And being naked in the shower? That's what people do in the shower. They get naked. Very, very naked.

_Mind out of the gutter. And shower_, she silently added.

Running her fingers along the fabric of her new dress, she quickly realized she would need to wear a slip under it. The cream material would look too transparent. She went to her lingerie drawer and pulled out a matching bra and panties set, along with an off-white slip that hit about mid-thigh, as she recalled from the last time she wore it.

Still hearing the water running, she slipped off her robe and slid the panties up her legs, followed by putting on the bra. She actually liked this bra; much more flattering than the uniboob of a sports bra. She subsequently pulled the slip over her head; the satin material skimmed over her slender body.

Next, she dug out nude stockings. She eyeballed the length of her dress and decided the stockings would work. The last thing she wanted was for the lace tops to peek out from the hem of her skirt.

She squirted lotion on her hands, rubbed the excess off on her legs, and pulled on the left stocking, careful not to snag it with her fingernails.

And suddenly she heard the water shut off. _Crap_. He took a fast shower. Felicity quickened her movements, trying to get the other stocking on without ripping it.

But the bathroom door opened.

Oliver drank her in, exhaling softly. Felicity sat on the edge of the bed, dressed only in a slip, her blonde hair still damp and tousled. Her right leg was outstretched, long, lean, and lithe. She adjusted a stocking, toying with the lace on her thigh before she tugged at the hem of her slip, trying to make the scant material longer.

He wondered what that leg would feel like hooked around his hip.

Oliver swallowed hard, willing his body not to betray him.

Her eyes widened slightly when she turned her head to look at him. He wore a towel—and she was fairly certain that was it. The fabric was slung around his waist, dangerously low, she thought. And wow. Water droplets ran down his chiseled torso until swallowed up by the towel. Her eyes dipped lower. She could faintly see the smattering of light brown hair under his belly button that ran downward in a trail and disappeared under the fabric.

She thought she detected some tenting _down there_.

Tantalizing.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you would still be getting dressed."

"Clothes come off much faster than they go on." As her brain caught up to her mouth, she shook her head slightly, mortified. "That's why I'm not finished dressing." It was bad enough to suffer from foot-in-mouth disease in a setting like the foundry basement, surrounded by equipment and Diggle and no chance of anything igniting between them. But with Oliver in her bedroom and neither one of them fully dressed, and with the yearning she felt settling into an ache, the words took on a new level of inappropriate. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I say the most ridiculous things around you. Good news is that my foot-in-mouth disease is not contagious."

"Felicity—"

But she ignored him, avoiding his gaze as she stood and reached for her dress. "I'll go put this on in the other room. Give you some privacy to get unnaked." No, that wasn't how she wanted to put it. She began to stammer more. "I mean, to get dressed."

* * *

A few minutes later, Oliver emerged from Felicity's bedroom, fully dressed and looking almost perfectly professional. His dark dress pants contrasted with the crisp whiteness of his button up shirt. A tie hung under the collar of his shirt, but he had yet to tie it. He draped his suit jacket on the back of her sofa.

"Felicity?" he called out.

"In the kitchen."

He rounded the corner and could see her behind the counter. She had her dress on, but the back remained partially open, giving him a view of her creamy skin and peek of the mostly covered lingerie.

"The zipper's stuck," she said miserably. "Would you mind? I don't want to break it."

He closed the distance between them and stood behind her. Gently, he moved aside her long hair, placing it over her shoulder. His fingers brushed against her neck in the process, and she trembled ever so slightly. In examining the zipper, he could easily see the silky material of the slip had been caught. He worked to free it from the zipper and slowly slid the zipper the rest of the way up, careful not to snag her lingerie again.

"Thanks. I'm pretty sure the zipper was possessed by Satan," she quipped, trying to keep the mood light. "And since the Winchesters aren't here, you did in a pinch."

He tried to follow her line of reasoning. Winchester was a type of rifle. What that had to do with zippers or Satan was lost on him. "Another pop culture reference?"

"_Supernatural_. The show's been on the air for a long time, but it's not as good as it used to be, so you're not really missing out."

"Are we okay?" he asked.

"We're good. I need to go finish getting ready. Help yourself to coffee. There are some K-cups next to the machine and mugs on the tree. If you want some breakfast, I have cereal in the cupboard—but some of it's stale, so you might want to try a bite first—and," she reached into the frig and retrieved a bag of English muffins, "I like these toasted with a dollop of cottage cheese and applesauce. Sounds," she motioned _iffy_ with her hand, "but it's good."

He watched her nervously flit around the small kitchen. "You don't have to take care of me."

"Yeah, I do." With that, she brushed past him and retreated into the bathroom. A moment later, he could hear her hair dryer.

* * *

"You smell." John Diggle's blunt assessment of Oliver had the younger man sniffing himself. "Like Felicity," Digg clarified.

Oliver walked toward his desk past his hulking partner in crime fighting. To the outside observer, Diggle was Oliver's subordinate, his hired muscle. They maintained that illusion at Queen Consolidated to avoid the inevitable questions.

Oliver had witnessed business associates look past Digg, dismiss him because of his perceived role. What they didn't know was that Digg was a good judge of character.

Too bad John didn't think of much of his character right now.

"Must be because I showered at her place this morning. Remind me I'll need to keep some things there just in case so that I smell a little less..."

"Pretty?" Digg completed. "Please tell me you two didn't."

"Didn't what?" Felicity piped in as she walked into the office and handed Oliver a tablet with his schedule for the day, as was their habit.

"You two crazy kids have fun last night?" Diggle asked.

Felicity's eyes cut from Digg to Oliver, sensing the tension in the room. She imagined John wasn't too thrilled with their plan and she'd be hearing about it later. "Well, now that I'm supposedly marrying Oliver for his money, he's going to foot the bill for a penalty box for me. Not that _I'll_ be in it. It'll be like my own personal time out box, and I get to be the ref."

"We didn't agree on that part," Oliver said to her before turning his attention to Diggle. "Hockey gives her ideas."

"Heaven forbid I get ideas," Felicity drolled. "You should've come, John. It was fun."

Digg wasn't invited—and the lack of an invitation hadn't been an oversight. Evidently Felicity didn't realize that. But fun? It wouldn't have been fun to watch the slow dance those two were doing around each other, not when he knew it would all blow up in their faces in the long run. He had made his thoughts clear to Oliver and would do the same with Felicity once they had some privacy. But now wasn't the time, so he played it off as a joke. "White men with sticks? For some reason, that doesn't appeal to me."

"Felicity, how's my morning looking?" Oliver asked.

"Your schedule should be cued up on your tablet—if you'd bother to look. Horse," she pointed to Oliver and then held up the tablet. "Water."

Diggle cleared his throat loudly, trying to camouflage a chuckle.

Oliver tapped his fingers on the desk, distracted. "I need you to cancel my meetings."

"Okay," Felicity replied, perplexed. "And where should I say you've gone?"

Oliver stood and tugged at the hem of his suit jacket. "Prison."

Felicity's mouth hung open as he walked past her. "I can't say _that_!"

* * *

The thirty-mile ride to Iron Heights Prison was one of the top three most uncomfortable rides Oliver Queen had ever experienced. Digg drove the Mercedes town car while Oliver sat in the back seat, papers spread out and laptop open. But every time Oliver looked up, he could see Digg's eyes glance at the rear view mirror, and the man was pissed off.

Finally, Digg broke his silence. "What are you doing, Oliver?"

"Answering e-mails."

"You know that's not what I'm asking."

"Are we going to do this now?" Oliver asked. When John didn't reply, he added, "I guess we are." He closed his laptop. "Before you take my head off, I didn't sleep with Felicity. I'm not going to sleep with her. Not that she's offering."

"Why were you showering at her apartment?"

"She runs every morning. I had to make sure she would be okay, so I ran with her."

"And this morning is different…"

"Because we appeared together in public last night."

Diggle exhaled loudly in understanding. "Did you see any cameras?"

"No, but I couldn't take that chance. If word leaks…"

"_When_ word leaks," Diggle corrected.

"I've got to protect her."

An image of Felicity surrounded by reporters shouting questions at her, impeding her path, filtered into Diggle's mind. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly. "You could've protected her by not dragging her into this scheme."

Digg wasn't telling Oliver anything he didn't already know, and it certainly wasn't something he wanted to hear, so he side-stepped. "You should've seen her last night. She was brilliant."

"I wasn't invited," Digg reminded him, though it was hard to ignore the obvious pride in Oliver's voice when he spoke of Felicity. He had to admit that he was curious, perhaps in that same way people are curious when they drive past a car crash or an arrest. "So, did she keep her cool when meeting with your big shots?"

"No, she lost her cool actually. Rambled about…I'm not even sure what. Then she insulted an ex-girlfriend of mine."

"Right. Sounds brilliant," Digg replied blandly.

"But she's endearing."

"That she is." Diggle paused a beat. "You two look like you've made up."

"We weren't fighting."

"Right," Digg chuckled. "You'd have to be talking for that."

"This will all be over soon, and things will get back to what passes for normal."

Diggle shook his head. Oliver wasn't lying to him; Oliver was lying to himself.

* * *

Iron Heights Prison had strict rules about visitation. Much to the consternation of the guard on desk duty in the front office, Oliver Queen was never a man who felt that rules applied to him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Queen, but our policy is clear. Visitation is Wednesdays only, from 1:30-3:45 p.m. Today is only Tuesday."

"This is important," Oliver reiterated through the speaker/microphone combo located next to the bullet-proof glass window that allowed him to see the clerk with whom he communicated.

"I'm sure it is."

"Then surely an exception can be made in this case."

"You people think that just because you have—"

"He can go in with me." Laurel Lance's voice cut into the conversation as she walked up behind Oliver. The clicking of her heels on the tile floor was a familiar cadence, but as Oliver turned to look at her, he was struck by her noticeable thinness. Laurel had always been fit; now she looked almost frail.

"Are you sure, Ms. Lance?" the clerk asked.

"The D.A.'s office has no objection to Mr. Queen seeing his mother."

The guard did not look particularly pleased as he pressed a button to temporarily unlock the door. "He," pointing to Diggle, "will need to stay out here."

Oliver looked back at John and shrugged. Diggle merely stood, hands clasped behind him, in a military at-ease stance.

Laurel walked through the door, briefcase in hand, her heels continuing their clicking on the tile floor.

"Thank you, Laurel." Talk about dumb luck—though his thoughts immediately went to what she was doing there. Shouldn't Jean Loring, his mother's attorney be present during questioning?

"I'm here to help her, Ollie," she said, her voice low.

"How did you know what I was thinking?"

The corners of her mouth turned up, but the smile did not quite reach her eyes. "I used to be good at reading you."

A guard led them outside a room where, though the window in the door, Oliver saw his mother waiting.

Laurel tentatively laid her hand on his arm but quickly removed it. "Whatever it is, I hope you can settle it in five minutes because that's all the time you'll have."

"Laurel, there's something I should tell you. Can we talk later?"

"With your mom's case, I shouldn't be seen talking to you even now. It looks—" she shook her head.

Oliver scrubbed his hand over his face. "Are you okay?"

Laurel had always been so strong, sure of herself, but she'd also been to hell and back. Oliver remembered all-too-well how she'd thrived when she had a vendetta and crumbled when she could no longer blame the vigilante—_him_—for what happened to Tommy.

Her stony eyes wavered. No, she wasn't fine. She was prosecuting a case she had no business prosecuting. Most mornings, she had to remind herself to put one foot in front of the other.

"I'm fine. "

Her clipped tone let Oliver know that was all she would say. _I'm fine. I'm fine._

Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to the woman waiting in the visitation room. Through the reinforced glass window on the door, Oliver could see Moira Queen handcuffed to the table in the room. The whole place was gray from the block walls, to the tile floor, and the stainless steel table. Even Moira's normally luminescent skin had a gray pallor to it.

In he walked. He could hear the buzz of the door locking after him.

When Moira Queen saw Oliver enter through the door rather than Laurel, she sat up, her back ramrod straight. It wasn't visiting day, unless she had somehow lost track of time, and the look of alarm filtered through her features immediately. "Is Thea okay?"

"Thea's fine." Oliver sat across from his mother and clasped her hands. They felt small and cold. Almost instantly, he moved to stand. "I'm going to get the guard to unchain you. This is unnecessary."

But Moira clasped onto his hand and stilled his movement. "Don't. It doesn't matter."

And so Oliver settled across from her, rubbing her hands, trying to warm them. "How are you, Mom?"

"Well, one day is pretty much the same as the next. I'm fine. But you're not," Moira said directly. "Tell me."

Oliver considered sugar-coating it, framing his request in a plausible story. Now faced with his mother, he couldn't quite find the words, so he got to the point. "I only have five minutes, and I need to know more about Isabel Rochev."

Of all the things Moira Queen might have expected to hear from Oliver, that wasn't one of them. "All you need to know about her is she can't be trusted."

"You've already told me that, but I need to know about _her._"

Moira tilted her head in that knowing way. "Why are you asking about Isabel?"

"It was suggested to me that Dad knew her."

Moira froze almost imperceptibly. "He did. Your father knew many people." It was a diplomatic answer, a politician's response, her way of answering a question and revealing nothing.

"Stellmoor is mounting a takeover of Starling National Bank."

Moira's eyes widened in understanding. "The financing."

"Right. The financing."

"You can't let her gain control of QC."

"I'm doing what I can to secure financing elsewhere."

Moira took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. This is my fault. I should be helping you."

"You _can_ help. Anything you can tell me about Isabel would be useful."

Moira considered her words carefully. "There's the Isabel you see. Then there's a layer just underneath that. You scratch the surface and you think you know her, but she's something else entirely. Someone else entirely."

"Mom, I need you to stop protecting me, stop protecting Dad. Whatever else there is, I need to know."

The pleading in her son's eyes pulled at her. "There's nothing else I can say, Oliver. But telling me to stop protecting you? If it were in my power, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you or for your sister."

He could tell from the set of her shoulders and the tilt of the chin that the matter was closed as far as she was concerned.

"There is one other thing."

"Yes?" she questioned.

"I should warn you in case this goes public. You may hear about an engagement."

Moira looked at her son questioningly and swallowed hard. "Walter's engaged?"

"No. Not Walter." He watched as relief washed over her features. "Reports may emerge that _I'm_ engaged."

The relief was short-lived.

"And would these reports be correct?" Moira surveyed her son. His choice of words was certainly odd.

Oliver looked at her and pursed his lips together, saying nothing.

Through the years, Moira had noted the similarities between Oliver and his father. As a child, Oliver looked so much like Robert did as a boy. Then there were the shared mannerisms, or at least had been before Oliver was shipwrecked. The way they walked, the ease with which they laughed. Now her son's reaction was nothing like Robert's when Robert told his mother he was getting married; of course, Moira's mother-in-law wasn't in prison, either.

"I wasn't aware you are seeing anyone exclusively." She still wasn't convinced that he was.

"Felicity Smoak is the name that might come up."

"That name is familiar."

"Felicity worked with Walter at QC. She helped me with a few computer issues, and we became friends. Now she and I work together. She was at the hospital after Walter's rescue."

"Yes, the young woman who brought flowers." Moira tilted her head. "What are you doing, Oliver?"

"If you are asked, I need you to make supportive statements. Make clear that Felicity is a trusted friend, a person of integrity. You're happy and you approve."

"I'm _not_ happy, and I don't approve. I don't know anything about this girl, and I don't know with what you've become embroiled." At Oliver's exasperated look, she added, "Wipe that look from your face. You've been taking lessons from your sister. You have told me there might be _reports_ of an engagement, not that you are actually engaged."

"Felicity is my friend. She's quirky and smart, compassionate and brave. She's putting her life on hold to help me, to help our family's company."

"And attractive, as I recall. You care about her."

"She's my friend," Oliver repeated, his voice softening.

"You and Laurel?" Moira asked.

Oliver shook his head. "Not for a long time."

Moira managed a smile. "I would very much like to meet your friend."

* * *

"Your dinner's getting cold." Felicity looked up at the salmon ladder as Oliver took the bar and propelled his body upward, another ring closer to the top.

"Yes, _dear_," Oliver grunted, his physical exertion evident in the bulging of his muscles and the light sheen of sweat on his naked torso.

"It can wait," she muttered to herself, appreciating the view.

Digg narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "Are you two _trying_ to drive me crazy?"

"You're just in a bad mood because Lyla is out of town," Felicity teased.

"And that you didn't get forks. You know I hate using chopsticks."

"It's because of your big man-hands." Felicity reached into her purse and produced a cellophane wrapped fork. She tried to toss it Digg, but it went way off its target.

"What else do you keep in there?" Digg asked as he bent to pick it up.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Felicity took a bite of rice and turned back to her trio of monitors. "So with Mrs. Queen not really giving any new information to Oliver about Isabel, and public information being so scant about her, I think I have an idea of where we can find—"

Felicity's new phone began ringing, and she jumped in surprise at the ringtone, the song "Short Skirt, Long Jacket," which began to blare. She looked back up, "Seriously, Oliver?"

She looked at the screen and saw JoJo's name. "Hold that thought." She slid her finger across the phone's touchscreen to answer the call. "Hey."

"_Smoaky, what is going on?" _JoJo's tone was one of near panic.

"I'm having dinner. Is everything okay?"

"_You tell me."_

"I guess so?" What was going on with JoJo that she was in a tizzy?

"_Unbelievable. We spent the weekend trying to exorcise him. I even fell off the ice cream wagon for you. And now you're engaged to Oliver?"_

Felicity swallowed hard. "Um, where exactly did you hear that?"

"_It's all over _PEOPLE_'s website."_

Cradling the phone with her shoulder, Felicity quickly typed in _People Magazine_'s website address. She was greeted with articles about Miley Cyrus's latest antics (boring), the premiere of _Catching Fire_, and Prince George's christening.

And then she saw it: Oliver Queen's Rumored Fiancée Felicity Smoak: Five Things to Know. A picture of Oliver dressed in a tuxedo accompanied the headline.

"JoJo, I'm going to have to call you back."

Without waiting for her friend to respond, Felicity pressed 'end call' on the phone screen and sat stunned, looking at the headline on her computer monitor. Screwing up her courage, she clicked on the link and began to read.

**Oliver Queen's Rumored Fiancée Felicity Smoak: Five Things to Know**

PEOPLE MAGAZINE ONLINE  
staff writer  
Published November 19, 2013 | 5:55 p.m.  
Subscribe for instant access to PEOPLE

One of America's most eligible bachelors may now be off the market.

Oliver Queen, the former tabloid staple – who spent five years shipwrecked on a deserted island in the North China Sea but has since taken over the reins of his family's multi-billion dollar company, Queen Consolidated – is rumored to be engaged to Felicity Smoak.

Smoak, 25, is an executive assistant at Queen Consolidated, and an insider tells PEOPLE she and Queen, 28, "are definitely seeing each other." (Though a Smoak source says the two are strictly friends.)

In September 2012, Queen returned to Starling City five years after being presumed dead when his family's yacht, the _Queen's Gambit_, sank in a hurricane. He was the sole survivor of the ill-fated voyage that claimed the lives of his father, billionaire Robert Queen, as well as Sara Lance, sister of his former girlfriend, Laurel Lance, and the crew of the ship.

Since the heir's return, the Queen family has endured struggles and scandals alike. Queen himself was arrested and accused of being a hooded vigilante before being proven innocent (we can't make this stuff up, readers). His sister, Thea Queen, 19, narrowly escaped a jail sentence following her involvement in a DUI. His step-father, Walter Steele, 51, suffered a four-month long captivity at the hands of unknown assailants. Currently, Moira Queen, 50, Oliver's mother, is preparing to stand trial for her alleged role in a terrorist plot that resulted in the deaths of more than five hundred residents of The Glades, a low-income Starling City borough.

A source close to the mogul confirms that Queen met Smoak last year when he asked the Queen Consolidated employee for computer advice. A friendship developed and, from there, romance blossomed. It is reported that the two recently vacationed together in Moscow where he proposed marriage. Here are five things to know about Oliver's rumored future Queen, Felicity Smoak ...

**1. She is smart. **_**Very**_** smart. **  
Don't let the job title of executive assistant fool you. Smoak attended Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) on a full academic scholarship and graduated _summa cum laude _in only three-and-a-half years. She was recruited by top tier companies across the nation, including Wayne Enterprises, but elected to work at Queen Consolidated to be closer to her family.

While working in the IT division of Queen Consolidated, Smoak was credited with developing a utilities program coupled with hardware that cuts energy costs in QC's manufacturing and office facilities by half without impacting productivity. The program has since been implemented in several government buildings across the state of California.

We're told that Smoak's change in job position to executive assistant was at the request of Oliver Queen himself but that she still dabbles in IT work. "Mr. Queen is navigating through shark infested waters right now," an unnamed employee told PEOPLE. "He needed someone by his side that he could trust implicitly. That person is Felicity. I think the relationship grew from that."

**2. She once dated Aaron Rodgers.**  
Oliver Queen isn't the first hottie that Smoak has dated. She now enjoys a close friendship with Aaron Rodgers, MVP quarterback of the Green Bay Packers, but a few years ago she was his main squeeze. Their connection goes back to location, location, location: both hail from Chico, California.

Smoak and Rodgers amicably parted ways in late 2006. "He's a few years older than her, and they were at different points in their lives, so it didn't work out. Felicity was just beginning college, and Aaron had already been drafted by the Green Bay Packers and was learning under the tutelage of Brett Favre," said an unnamed source.

"I just think he's a very special [person]," Smoak said of Rodgers.

One extra special reminder of their relationship still lives in Chico, a chocolate lab named Dexter (yes, after _that _Dexter). Says a close pal, "Aaron was buying a pup for his parents and couldn't resist buying the dog's sibling for Felicity."

All's well that ends well. While Smoak has moved on with Queen, the notoriously private Rodgers is rumored to be engaged to his longtime girlfriend, also from Chico.

**3. She is Jewish.  
**With the holidays just around the corner, be prepared to say "Happy Hanukkah" rather than "Merry Christmas" to Smoak.

"Felicity's family isn't overly religious," says a Smoak family insider, "but they take their Jewish heritage very seriously."

Her great-grandparents emigrated from Germany to the United States shortly after Adolf Hitler assumed power following the death of German President Hindenburg in 1934.

Another family friend says, "Felicity had a pretty idyllic upbringing. Her father is a dentist, her mother an optometrist. They've always been very involved in Felicity's life and pushed her to reach her full potential."

Snagging a billionaire? Score one for the Smoaks.

_Mazel tov._

**4. She is not Oliver Queen's typical conquest.**  
The Queen scion is perhaps known more for his rumored antics in the bedroom than the boardroom. A number of beauties have graced his arm over the years, from socialites like Colleen McMartin, to lingerie models like Patria Jorgensen, and even childhood friend, Laurel Lance, just to name a few. So what sets this 5'6" blonde-haired, blue-eyed stunner apart from the rest?

"Quite honestly, she's a little nerdy," laughs an insider. "Not the type of woman you'd expect Oliver Queen to marry. On the other hand, she is a knockout and doesn't even know it."

We've been told that Smoak prefers wearing glasses to contact lenses, has the tendency to get flustered in social situations, is a science fiction fan, and isn't afraid to tell Oliver no. Maybe that goes back to being smart, _very_ smart.

"She's the quintessential good girl next door who fell for the bad boy."

Only this good girl is smoking (or is that _Smoak_ing?) hot.

**5. She has a wild side. **  
Though Smoak has a reputation as a straight shooter, we've been told that she has a bit of a rebellious streak in her, as well.

"Felicity has a tattoo on her lower back that literally spells 'trouble,' as well as multiple piercings." According to a friend of Smoak's, the decision to get the tattoo was impulsive and fueled by an excess of alcohol. "She thought she could hold her liquor, but she's a real lightweight," the source added.

Maybe Felicity Smoak is Oliver Queen's type, after all.

_**Keep up with Oliver Queen in the pages of PEOPLE Magazine by subscribing now.**_

Along with the article three photographs appeared. One was from their Tuesday morning run that screamed out to her, "Hello world, my name is Felicity Smoak, and I'm sweaty!"

The second picture was taken at the hockey game the night before. Evidently, one of the photographers present at the game noticed the two of them in the Queen suite and took the picture with a telescoping lens. In the photo, her hand was outstretched, her fingers tangled with Oliver's, and the engagement ring was in full view. Felicity briefly wondered if anyone would notice that her sleeve was also in the nacho cheese on Oliver's plate. Of course, if that wasn't enough, PEOPLE magazine placed an inset, close-up photo of the engagement ring with an estimated price tag.

The last photograph was from the Rebuild the Glades charity gala. In it, Felicity was touching Oliver's face—wiping away blood, as she recalled, covering for his Arrow activities. It was a gesture that came across as far more intimate than she ever intended.

"No, no, no, no, no…"

"Did you already find something?" Oliver asked dropping from the salmon ladder. He grabbed a nearby towel and draped it around his neck.

"Oh, I found something all right. It's bad. It's really, really bad."

She could feel the heat emanating from Oliver as he leaned over her shoulder to scan the article. Diggle stood on the other side of her and began to read, as well. As soon as he realized what the article was about, he shot Oliver his best, _"I told you so"_ look before stepping back from the two of them.

"You dated Aaron Rodgers?" Oliver asked as he made it to the portion of the article about Felicity's supposed old flame.

"Of course not. I've never even met him. They need better fact checkers. Everybody knows that Favre did _not_ take Rodgers under his wing."

"Right. Everyone," Oliver deadpanned.

"All these so-called sources…" Felicity covered her mouth in horror. These were people who supposedly knew her, and they were speaking so freely with the press. _Why would they?_

"Aaron Rodgers? Could be worse," Diggle interjected. "They could've paired you off with Aaron Hernandez."

Felicity groaned.

Oliver kept reading. "You have a tattoo?"

She shifted nervously in her chair. "Maybe."

"That spells 'trouble'?" Oliver continued.

"You have no idea how much. My family is going to think we're really engaged, and they're going to be so disappointed in me."

Oliver shot her a look of annoyance.

"Not that _you're_ a disappointment. It would be the not telling them part. Of course, there hasn't been anything to tell, but if I tell them that, there's no telling how…"

"Felicity. Deep breath."

"And I'm pretty sure my mom is going to flip out over the tattoo. She always said I couldn't be buried in the family cemetery if I had a tattoo. But I guess of the two big shockers," she held out her hands like a balancing scale, "I'm thinking the engagement will outweigh the tattoo."

Oliver shook his head. Felicity was making him dizzy.

"If you have any other bad news, now might be a good time to spring it on her. Get it all over with at once," Digg suggested.

Oliver squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath before saying quietly, "I'm sorry."

"I could hack into PEOPLE's servers. Do a little delety-delete." Felicity wriggled her fingers in the air, as though eager to put them to good old-fashioned illegal use.

Before he had a chance to respond, Oliver's cell phone buzzed with a new text message. He looked at the screen.

From Thea  
sent 6:24 p.m.  
_**WTF? Is there something you want to tell me?**_

A link followed the message.

Oliver clicked on the link, which opened his cell phone's web browser to TMZ's website. Without saying anything, Felicity grabbed the phone from his hand, pushed a couple of buttons, and the image on Oliver's phone was mirrored on her computer monitors.

"Do you ever miss the old days when we could count on Oliver Queen for good clean family fun?" One of the TMZ reporters asked as an introduction to the segment.

The video cut to archived footage of Oliver walking down the street with two women—one on each arm. When the young Oliver saw the camera coming at them, he struck it, yelling out, "Get that [-]ing camera out of my [-]ing face." Censors bleeped part of his words, but it was still obvious what he said.

"And who could forget the time he pissed on a cop's tire?" the reporter asked.

Archival video showed Oliver with his back to the camera near a police squad car; the obvious sound of liquid hitting pavement could be heard on the shaky video.

The screen cut back to the reporter. "Within the last few hours, word has come out that Oliver Queen, once called the rich man's Lindsay Lohan, is engaged."

A "shocked" sound effect punctuated the news. The video then shifted to the bullpen of the TMZ headquarters. Numerous casually dressed TMZ paparazzi sat there discussing the situation.

"Poor girl," said one woman, who looked to be in her mid-twenties.

A bearded man with oily hair added, "Not for long. When a man's as rich as Oliver Queen, you can put up with a pissing match."

"So I'm told that the lucky lady is executive assistant Felicity Smoak…" the reporter who introduced the segment was among those in the bullpen.

"Who?" asked another man with spiked hair, scoffing.

"Executive assistant? Isn't that just a fancy way of saying secretary? Come on, is there anything more cliché than boinking your secretary?"

The female commentator took exception to the comment. "Give him a little credit. He may genuinely care about her."

And the bullpen laughed uproariously.

An image of Felicity appeared on the screen from the Glades benefit gala. It was the same photo that appeared in PEOPLE magazine. "In all seriousness, she's hot," the spiky haired paparazzo opined. "She's got this naughty schoolteacher vibe going on. I can dig it."

The reporter added, "Sources say they have been inseparable for the last few months. Seems like Oliver's attention span is longer than it used to be. Think it'll last?"

"Depends on how good this Felicity Smoak is at turning a blind eye."

The female laughed. "I thought you were going to say it depends on how good she is in bed."

"I just think there's more to this than we know. I'm going on baby bump watch," the bearded man said.

"We'll keep you posted with news as it happens. TMZ."

The screen faded to the TMZ logo.

Oliver muttered something in Russian that Felicity was fairly certain translated to something she wouldn't say in front of her grandmother, who was no shrinking violet.

"I'm thinking deleting the PEOPLE article isn't going to help much at this point."

Oliver rested his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry. That report was so disrespectful toward you."

"And you," Felicity replied. "Well, you know what they say. You never forget your first time…on TMZ." She rubbed her hands on the skirt of her dress before standing.

"Felicity—"

She held up her hand to stop him. "I've got to call my parents before they hear it from someone else. You owe me big time. Penalty box big."

Oliver and Diggle watched as she walked away from them and went into the bathroom, the only room she could get any privacy, as she always joked.

John looked to the younger man.

"Digg, don't say it."

Digg halfway snorted. "Doesn't look like I have to say it. You got the message loud and clear. So what are you going to do now?"

Oliver took a deep breath and arched an eyebrow. "I'm going to turn Felicity into a Queen."

* * *

_to be continued..._


End file.
